Chiffon Scarf (13 page)

“Men’s voices, or women’s?”

“I think—women’s. I can’t be sure. I didn’t notice any thing at all until I heard the—the sound—”

“What kind of sound?”

“I told you. As if a drawer had stuck—”

P. H. Sloane said, “Wait a minute,” glanced once around the room and went to the small chest of drawers which stood a little away from the wall. It was at an angle, obviously out of order. He said: “Did it sound like this?” and pulled the chest a little further from the wall.

It made a distinct, scraping sound.

“Yes,” said Eden. “It was like that. It might have been that.”

P. H. Sloane stood for a moment beside the chest.

“I see,” he said. “Well, it doesn’t help us much. You’re sure she was—dead?”

“Yes—yes—”

“She didn’t speak to you?”

“Oh no,” cried Eden on a sobbing breath. Noel took her hand again and patted it absently and Averill stared at her with bright, enigmatic eyes, and turned suddenly to the detective.

“Creda is wearing my coat. She’s wearing it now.”

P. H. Sloane glanced at her, said, “Yes, I know that,” and came back to Eden. “Then what did you do?”

“After I came in here, you mean? Well, it was so quiet after those footsteps had gone—it—there was something—I can’t describe it. I had to come. So I—I did. The light was turned out. I found it and turned it on and there she was.” It was rather dreadful to tell it. She fastened her eyes upon the detective so she need not look at the room—at the floor—at the dark splatter on the little writing table.

“And you—”

“What did I do, you mean? Why, I—I suppose I called out. Spoke to her. She—she didn’t answer. I was kneeling beside her then. But she was dead. I—I got up and went to the window and screamed.”

And that glimpse of what looked like a white face. She must tell them that, too. As she started to speak Sloane said:

“Listen, Miss Shore, when those footsteps, as you say, tiptoed out of the cabin, you are sure whoever it was really did leave the cabin?”

“Yes—oh yes. Besides, there was no one here. Except Creda.”

“And you don’t know who it was that entered and then tiptoed out again?”

“No. I didn’t see him.”

“Him?”

“Whoever it was,” amended Eden hastily. “I don’t know who it was.”

There was a little silence.

P. H. Sloane glanced at one of the cowboys.

“Slim, you and Harris stay here. Don’t let anybody touch anything. Now then, folks.” He turned to the others. “We’ll go up to the house. The sheriff will be here soon as he can make it. Meantime we’ll wait where it’s more comfortable. By the way, Miss Blaine—when you left Miss Shore in her room where did you go?”

Averill drew herself up deliberately.

“I did not leave Eden in her room,” she said distinctly. “I was not there with her. I met her on the path, talked to her for a moment and went directly to the house. I did not come to the cabin at all.”

Eden gasped with the shock of it.

“Averill, that’s not true,” she cried, starting to her feet. “Tell him the truth.”

“I am telling him the truth,” said Averill quite coolly. “I can’t imagine why you lied to him.” She turned again, coolly, to the detective. “I saw nobody and heard nothing. I went directly to the house, stood for a moment or two on the porch, smoking, and then went inside. You must have seen me there with the others.”

“But, Averill—” cried Eden and stopped. For to her dismay the detective nodded slowly.

“Yes, I remember you were there. You mean Mrs. Blaine could have been dead for some time before she was discovered. In that case it becomes more and more important to discover just who it was that Miss Shore heard enter the cabin.” He took out a package of cigarettes, withdrew one, and turned it in his fingers for a moment before he said: “If that person will step forward and explain—”

Instantly there was almost unearthly silence in the crowded little cabin—with Creda lying there on the bed, stained gray chiffon unknotted at last but replaced in light folds over her marred face. With her fat white little hand hanging limply downward.

After a moment P. H. Sloane shrugged a little. He said dryly: “I expect it’s too much to ask. However—Miss Blaine, as you remarked, Mrs. Blaine is wearing the yellow cloak you were wearing earlier in the evening. Can you explain that?”

“Certainly,” said Averill instantly. “As you see, I’m wearing her evening wrap. I met her on the porch, just as I walked out of the house. You were playing the piano, Mr. Sloane. I walked out for a breath of air and because the night was so beautiful. I met her on the porch; she said she was cold and I wasn’t; we traded coats. Mine was warmer than hers and I’m never cold. She went away then. I didn’t notice where. I walked on down the path where I met Eden—Miss Shore. We talked for a moment and I went back to the house as I’ve told you. I was not near the cabin. I don’t know anything of this.”

“Averill, that’s not true. You were here with me. And you were wearing that yellow cloak.” Eden turned almost passionately toward Sloane. “I swear it,” she cried. “I’m telling you the truth.”

Sloane put up his hand as if for silence. He said: “You noticed the yellow coat when you found Mrs. Blaine dead?”

“Why, yes, of course,” cried Eden. “I thought—”

“You thought what?” said P. H. Sloane very softly. Again it was silent in the packed little cabin with all these faces watching. And again there was a kind of warning in Jim’s eyes. Noel said suddenly: “Take it easy, Eden.”

And Eden said: “I thought it was Averill. Until I saw it was Creda.”

“I see,” said P. H. Sloane slowly.

And Averill, with a swirl of taffeta, swept suddenly across to P. H. Sloane and put both her hands upon his black sleeve and lifted her white face and cried: “Don’t you see? Don’t you see that it was I they meant to kill? My coat—my room—the veil was over her face so they couldn’t see it was Creda. They meant to kill me.”

“You can’t say that” cried Noel, and Jim said: “Averill

—stop—”

But Averill wouldn’t stop.

“Ask Eden whose scarf that is. Ask her if it belongs to her. Ask her why she did it.”

J
IM HAD TAKEN AVERILL
by the arm and was shaking it and shouting: “Averill, that’s monstrous! That’s crazy! Don’t listen to her, P. H. She doesn’t mean what she’s saying. She wouldn’t make any such crazy accusation if she was herself. It’s the shock—it’s—Averill, tell him you didn’t mean what you said. Averill—”

And Noel was talking, too. Stepping between Averill and Eden so she could no longer see Averill’s slender, tense figure, swathed in billowing silk.

“Eden didn’t kill Creda. Averill doesn’t realize the thing she said. She didn’t mean it. Suppose it is Eden’s scarf around her throat; that doesn’t mean anything. Why, Eden couldn’t have killed her; she’s not strong enough. They would have struggled, Creda would have called for help, someone would have heard her. Besides, Eden had no quarrel with Creda, no possible motive. Eden—oh, it’s absurd, don’t listen to Averill.”

Again P. H. Sloane put up his brown, lean hand. The gesture induced silence and he said in a quiet and measured way:

“We’ll go to the main house and wait for the sheriff. Meantime, if, on consideration, any of you remember or discover any evidence you think ought to be known I’d strongly advise you to tell it. You may not have had time to comprehend the seriousness of this thing. And the importance of telling anything you know or observed.” He stopped rather abruptly, turned and said to Chango: “You have a flashlight. You go ahead, Chango, and light the way for the ladies. Now then—”

He waited until they all filed slowly from the cabin—all, that is, except two long, brown, capable-looking cowboys who remained. Eden herself was conscious of Noel’s arm around her; it was a light touch but sustaining; without it she doubted whether she could have risen and walked out of the horror-freighted cabin and along the path. The night was still, the stars as clear as they had been half an hour ago. Ahead Chango’s flashlight glanced here and there eerily, lighting the pines, lighting the path in flashes. Behind her someone spoke and then was silent. Where was Jim? Oh yes; there he was ahead with Averill whose light, long skirt looked ghostly, glimmering in the half light from Chango’s torch. The coat she wore was obviously a coat belonging to Creda, one Averill couldn’t possibly have chosen; pale pink taffeta with ruffles, pulled in slenderly at the waist and then billowing downward in yards and yards of the silken, whispering stuff. Sometime certainly between Averill’s short, ugly interview with Eden in Eden’s own room and (a few moments later) the discovery of Creda’s body, Averill and Creda had changed coats. For Averill was wearing the yellow cloak when she came upon Jim and Eden in the shadow of the pines and went with Eden to Eden’s cabin. Eden remembered that clearly. Therefore that meeting with Creda and exchange of coats took place in the short interval following Averill’s talk with Eden. Why, then, had she lied?

But why, then, had she burst out with that sharp, ugly attack upon Eden? An attack so unexpected, and so plainly virulent that it robbed itself of its own sting. Or did it?

Was there stirring question in the eyes that turned toward Eden? Jim had tried to defend her and Noel had done so instantly, too. But what really did all of them think?

She had found Creda. She had been by her own admission alone in the cabin with Creda. And it was her own gray scarf knotted with murderous tightness and strength around Creda’s throat.

That scarf. Where had she last seen it—on the plane, of course. She had put it softly around her throat and gone to sleep. And when she awoke to the amazing sight she awoke to (only that morning?) the scarf was gone and she looked for it briefly and forgot it. Then had whoever murdered Creda been plotting murder even then? Exploring ways and means, deciding on the scarf not only as a means of murder, but as a means of confusing any possible clues?

Noel at her side said nothing; his arm warm and steady upheld her. They had reached the steps—they were crossing the wide porch. Incredibly the lights inside fell upon utter order and normalness. The room was exactly as it had been; nothing out of place, nothing changed except perhaps the chairs were pushed about a little as if people had sprung from them hurriedly when she and then Noel shouted for help.

He put her swiftly into a deep, cushioned armchair and stood there for a moment looking down at her.

“Can I get you anything?”

“No. Noel—that scarf—how could Averill—”

“You know Averill. She’s always that way with you. Averil?’s a—a stubborn hater. You ought to know that by this time. Eden dear, don’t look like that. You poor kid. Stumbling upon Creda—”

“Don’t—”

“I know. I won’t. Only, Eden, isn’t there anything you can think of that will sort of—well, distract the sheriff when he comes? I mean—good God, Eden, everything you’ve told up to now could be used (if the sheriff’s a knothead as he may be) actually to incriminate you. You couldn’t possibly have done anything like that. That’s just absurd. But you do realize, don’t you, dear, that the sheriff—”

“Noel, you can’t mean anybody suspects me—”

“There, now, Eden. I mean—oh God, what a mess. Listen. You’ve told them you found her; you’ve told them you were alone in the cabin with her. You’ve told them you didn’t hear a sound—and, Eden, don’t you see there
must
have been some sound? Murder—a murder like that—there had to be a—a struggle of some kind. Creda must have called for help.”

“There wasn’t anything, Noel. I’ve told everything”

“I know, Eden dear. That’s just the trouble. That’s what I’m trying to tell you not to do. I mean—just don’t say any more than you have to. But if there’s anything in the world to—to give the sheriff an idea of what happened, who murdered her, for, God’s sake tell it.”

“But, Noel—there’s nothing. I—it’s not real, any of it. Things like this just don’t happen to—to people like us.”

Noel smiled a little.

“A very snobbish remark, my child,” he said. “Murder can happen anywhere. But the really charming thought about this is that you have to know anybody pretty well to want to murder them. Murder is a plant of slow growth—and I don’t think any of these cowboys—or Sloane or Chango or the cook—took such an instant and violent dislike to Creda they had to murder her.”

“You mean—oh, Noel, none of us murdered her! That’s horrible.”

“It’s not a nice thought, no.” His eyes traveled slowly around the room. “Not at all nice,” he repeated. “There’s the lot. Averill and Jim. Dorothy. Pace, who’s in the same category as Sloane inasmuch as he met Creda only a night or two ago. You and me—I’ll have to retract, Eden. I can’t see any of us doing murder. What do you think?”

With a new and dreadful question in her eyes she followed his look. The others were grouped in little clusters. P. H. Sloane was at the door, giving Chango low-voiced orders probably, for the little Chinese was listening intently, his black eyes shining, and nodding briskly at every word. Averill was standing with Jim and Dorothy Woolen before the fireplace where the fire had burned down to ashes. Averill’s face was ghastly above the pale pink taffeta, her mouth as brightly and heavily crimson as if she had dipped it in blood. Jim was talking to her, swiftly and in a low murmur which Eden could barely distinguish. Dorothy was like a blank, wooden statue painted in the palest pastels—ash-blonde hair with its great braid around her bland, blank pale face. Pale blue eyes staring fixedly at Eden. Pale lips, never touched with crimson make-up and now almost gray, lent a kind of flabbiness to her whole face. As Eden met her eyes she came forward, slowly, and said:

“Is there anything I can do, Miss Shore? It must have been a dreadful shock.”

Her words were kindness and friendliness itself; her voice and pale eyes utterly blank and without expression. But Eden was about to take the words at their face value and thank the girl when Dorothy spoke again. She said calmly, almost monotonously:

“It seems to bad to make such a fuss about Mrs. Blaine’s death. I mean this talk of murder. It’s so obvious that it was suicide!”