Another Woman's House (18 page)

Sam laughed shortly. “You remembered witnesses barely in time, Webb. A few more words and we'd have made you regret it.”

“Oh, no, you wouldn't,” said Webb. “You're too good a lawyer to try threats, Sam, or to lose your temper.”

Richard said, “Okay, Webb. If you don't want to talk …”

“I've told everything I know a hundred times.”

“You've told some things you didn't know, too,” said Sam.

Webb's face flushed angrily. Richard said, “Skip it, Sam. All right then, Webb. But you
were
on the scene of Jack's murder immediately. Will you answer one or two questions?”

“I don't know. You can ask them.”

“All right. Between us, aside from your feeling about Alice, did you see anyone else that night? In the hall—on the terrace—anywhere?”

Webb waited a moment as if exploring it for traps. Then he said, but still angrily, “No! I didn't have any reason to believe there
was
anybody else. That doesn't give you or Tim a clean bill of health, though, Dick. It was a dark night. I was running. Somebody
could
have got away without my knowing it. Any other questions?”

Sam started to speak. Richard said, “Wait a minute, Sam. Yes. The gun. Webb, the story you've admitted was not true is out now. Actually—in fact—
did
you see the gun?”

Webb hesitated again. This time for a long moment or two while he stared at the lilies Mildred had brought. Finally he said, “No, I didn't.”

“Did you look for it?”

“Not then. Later, yes. After …” his angry eyes went to Tim. “After Tim got here. Tim with his convenient memory.” There was in his face suddenly a puzzled look. “I'm an honest man, so I'll tell you something. I'd trade anything I knew, right now, for the truth from Tim. Why did he corroborate what I told in the first place and now, nearly two years later, come out with this? He said that he forgot the curtain. Obviously he's going to stick to that explanation. I don't believe it. I don't think the Governor or district attorney or anybody else believes it. But I'd like to know the truth. I'm an honest man and …”

“You, honest?” said Sam, lifting his thin black eyebrows. “A man who sent a woman to prison by swearing to a lie?”

A slow, queer flush crept upward again over Webb's face. “All right. And I'm going to be charged with perjury. But I'm not going to be charged with murder.” He looked at Richard. “You'd like that, wouldn't you? You saw the jam that you and young Lane are in. You said to yourself ‘I'll be smart; I'll get Sam Putnam, he's smart. We'll all get together and work something out of Webb and fasten the thing on him. We'll cross question him; we'll trick him.' Oh, sure, very smart. Only I'm not having any.”

Richard said slowly, “No, that's wrong, Webb. I'm not trying to fasten a murder charge on anybody. I told you the truth. You were here that night before anybody else. It seemed to me it might profit us all to survey the situation together. That's all.”

“Profit you, you mean,” said Webb.

With an impatient gesture Sam got up from the table and, as he moved, saw Myra. “Oh, Myra, I didn't realize you were here.” Tim jerked around as Sam spoke. Richard looked at her too and said, “This is Mr. Webb Manders; Myra. Miss Lane—Lady Carmichael's ward.”

“I know.” Webb gave her a quick hard glance and a nod. “I've heard that you were living here, Miss Lane.” His eyes went to Richard and back to her and yet so swiftly and so coolly that if there was significance in it, it was not overt. He said as coolly, “If you can get the truth out of that brother of yours, Miss Lane, you'll be doing us all a favor.”

“He has righted a great wrong,” said Myra, “for which you were responsible.”

A flash of anger came into his eyes. His lantern jaw thrust forward. “But you do realize,” he said, “that Tim
could
have killed my brother.”

“Not according to your own testimony, Webb,” said Richard shortly. “You said that you passed him on the driveway, that you were in a car and he came in after Jack was killed.”

“But my testimony,” said Webb, “was perjury. Don't forget that. When this new investigation gets under way they aren't going to neglect me. Oh, no.”

“They're not going to credit any story you now tell,” said Richard wearily. “You may as well tell us anything you know.”

Webb said coolly and distinctly; “I did not hear or see anyone in the hall or on the terrace. You may have been there, Dick. I'm not saying you weren't. But I didn't see you, if that's what you're scared about. And I never saw the gun. I don't know anything about it. But if you want to know where it is, ask your wife.”

Richard's fists doubled, Webb drew back a step quickly, and Sam, as quickly, intervened. “I warned you, Dick, to keep your temper. He's leaving. …”

“Oh, I'm leaving!” said Webb at the door. “That's right! But get this straight. I came in this door and there was Jack—where you're standing. Alice was kneeling there beside him—his blood on her dress.
And on her hands.
I believed it then and I still believe it.
Wait
—I knew he was dead. And I knew that I'd have to prove that she did it. Juries are too soft-hearted with women—pretty women, rich women. I was on the driveway when I heard the shots. I had tried to see in that window, over there, and I couldn't because the curtains were closed. So that was clear in my mind. I could think fast. As soon as I saw what had happened I sent Alice to the telephone. I ran across and pulled open one of the curtains and ran back to him. I didn't hear or see young Lane …” There was a look of venom and hatred in his long face. “When he backed up my story I thought merely that he was telling the truth, that he'd come up on the terrace and reached the door only after I'd got back to Jack's body. I lied, sure, I lied, but because I believed that she shot him. Because I intended to accuse her, and intended to make the accusation stick. And I still believe she killed him.”

Tim was nearest him. He had been gradually moving over toward him, although Myra did not realize it until he swung at Webb, quietly, really, and in a businesslike manner. Webb saw it coming and ducked. Tim's fist struck him along the jaw and sheered off. Richard was across the room in one movement, Sam after him. Suddenly all of them were separated, and Webb, rubbing his jaw, shouted angrily, “Sure, three of you against one. Well, I'm not going to fight anybody. But I'll tell you. Suppose Alice and young Lane made an agreement.”

“
Agreement!
” said Sam.

“Sure. Alice says if young Lane will do the shooting, she'll take the rap for awhile. Then young Lane is to remember some evidence which will get her out of the clink. See? So he goes to war and probably the two years seemed a long time to Alice. But he does come back, and he does get her out.”

“You're crazy, Webb!” said Richard.

“Oh, no, I'm not. Suppose that's why there isn't any gun found; suppose Jack was actually shot with Dick's gun half an hour before I got here; suppose Tim or Alice got away with the gun, Tim hurries away from the house and Alice or somebody fires the shots I heard …”

“This is fantastic, Webb! There are a hundred loopholes,” said Sam.

“Okay, what are they? The biggest argument against it is the danger that Alice would get the death penalty and Alice was pretty sure she wouldn't. She's too pretty.”

“Why?” said Richard. “Jack didn't threaten Alice. An elaborate plan on her part—and Tim's—to get rid of him is nonsense.”

“Nonsense? Okay. But young Lane would do anything for your wife, even to murder …”

“Webb, you're …”

“No, I'm not! But he's crazy about her. Always has been. Sure, call it puppy love if you want to. But this puppy was trained to kill.”

Sam caught Richard's arm and shouted, “Tim don't …” But this rime Tim did not move and Webb backed hurriedly out the door. “I'm leaving! I'm not going to fight Dick or anybody! But you can't pin a murder charge on me.”

His long face vanished, his footsteps thumped along the terrace. Sam's hand on Richard's arm gradually relaxed. The thumping, angry—and frightened?—footsteps diminished and in the strained silence the little French clock began to strike energetically, with a musical nonchalant briskness which was all out of character with the scene it had marked.

The little French clock which also had marked the moment of Jack Manders' death!

It struck twelve times and Richard said with a heavy sigh, “I was afraid it would do no good. He doesn't know anything about the gun.”

“He does if he shot Jack,” said Sam. “If that gun is still anywhere around, whoever used it is going to get rid of it. It's the only thing, now, that can prove or disprove anything. Too much time has passed; too many things have been forgotten or destroyed that might have been clues. The gun is the big piece of evidence that has never been produced. But honestly—I don't think it can be produced. Nobody would be such a fool as not to get rid of the thing.” He sighed. “Dick, I'm your lawyer. We've got only till tomorrow. And I'm damned if I know what to do.”

“Neither do I,” said Richard. “It's late. We might as well go to bed.”

Tim said suddenly, “Webb was right about Alice, Dick. I mean the way I feel about her. But it's okay, you know. I mean …”

“Oh, Lord, I know it's okay, Tim.”

But Tim had to go on. He spoke easily and frankly, without even a tinge of embarrassment. “I was always crazy about her. Not that she ever knew it. I mean—well, she'd have been upset.”

Richard said, “I know, Tim.”

Tim said, “She's—Alice. She wouldn't have touched Jack with a ten-foot pole. She … Of course, I'm crazy about her! But that doesn't mean that I don't—that
you
aren't—well, hell,” said Tim, “you are just as important to me as Alice. Only …” he stopped, and Richard said, “You're all right, Tim. Forget it. We'll all be all right, once we get through this business tomorrow.” He turned to Sam. “You'll stay of course, Sam. I told Barton to put out pajamas and a razor for you. You're in the room next to Tim.”

Richard was suddenly banking the fire, arranging the screen as if it was any night. As suddenly they were all moving toward the stairway.

“Anybody want a highball?” said Richard.

Nobody did. Sam was at the bottom step. Again to Myra the newel post seemed endowed with magnetic powers. Sam's hand touched it, lingered, while he turned to say something to Richard. She had to watch, testing, in spite of herself, the strength of the pressure against the post. But then he lifted his hand as if unaware of the thing it had touched and went on.

At the top of the stairs the corridor stretched along wide and empty and gracious—as if it too knew no secrets. Somewhere was a floating delicate fragrance of lilac, a tangible soft reminder of Alice's presence in that now opened and warmed and perfumed room. And the silence, some impalpable prohibition, seemed to lay itself upon them all, so their voices lowered, their footsteps were restrained and quiet. There was no chance for a word alone with Tim, no chance for a word alone with Richard. He went past his own room, however, along with Tim and Sam. “I'll show you,” he said, although Sam knew the way.

Tim bent and kissed her cheek when she reached her own door. Sam took her hand briefly, and then in a rather puzzled way gave her fingers a quick scrutinizing glance before he released it.

Richard said, “Sleep, Myra. Don't worry …” His voice was tired; his eyes said nothing.

She closed her door behind her. The lights were on, the bed neatly turned down. She looked at her hands. There were still traces of crumbly soil and leaf mold around her slender nails. Sam, of course, had seen them.

But it didn't matter; nothing so small and unimportant mattered.

She did not hear Richard return along the hall. She did not, in fact, hear anything but the high, neverending whistles of the peepers. She stood for a long time at the open window.

But all questions, everything, simmered down to one; that one had a terrible urgency which superseded all the others.

Suddenly it was not simple. It had seemed easy, listening to Sam. Actually there was nothing simple about it.

What
could
she do about the gun?

Wouldn't whoever hid the gun believe, and have every reason to believe in the safety of that hiding place? It had once—and for nearly two years after—been perfectly safe, even at the time of the most pressing police search for it. So why should that person now secretly remove the gun?

And in spite of the talk of it, so Sam and Tim and Richard—yes, and Webb, and even perhaps Mildred and Aunt Cornelia, were all strongly aware of its importance, would any of those people remove it?

So short a time ago, in anticipation, the project of making a trap with the gun had seemed simple; now it was not. How did anybody make a trap?

What would Sam have done? Warned everybody, certainly, stressed the importance of the gun as new evidence. But that in effect, was done. And then what? Would he have watched? All night, all the time, every minute, from one of the darkened rooms along the hall?

Could she do that?

It seemed in an odd sense theatrical, and impracticable in real life to crouch in waiting silence and darkness, watching the newel post, listening for steps from the terrace, or down the stairs. Mainly it seemed now unsound in practice and unlikely to prove anything. Besides if anyone did come stealthily out of the night and remove the gun, exactly what could she do?

In any case, whatever she did, she'd have to be sure that the house was quiet, that no one was still about to see—and question.

She undressed slowly. She got into a dressing gown, red wool with a slender basque-like top and full long skirt so it looked, somehow, medieval, and was very warm. Red, Alice had said, is becoming to you.