Escape the Night (30 page)

“The rope, I think. First.”

Staring into the flashlight, he mouthed: “Rope?”

“The old one you got out of the tool shed when Luisa was drowned. But I knew you’d had a new one only the day before. I asked for it. You said the old one would do. I didn’t think of it at the time; but yesterday when I got to thinking of what Leda had said and how Luisa could have been murdered so she didn’t scream and yet went over the rocks, I knew. And I remembered then, just after Leda’s death, there was that clatter and clash in the hall here—as if something had lashed against the wall. So I searched the cottage and tool shed everywhere. I don’t know what you did with the rope you used to strangle Leda. But the other new one—the first one—is around Luisa’s neck—isn’t it, Dave?”

“I suppose so …”

“You stood on the rocks. I remembered I had told Serena that Luisa came that way every day, and that you had told me. That’s how I knew it. So you knew she’d likely be coming and you waited. With your rope—the new rope; the one that wouldn’t break. You’d worked as a boy at the Condit ranch; you still had some skill with a rope. I saw some ropes yesterday, coiled on pegs, there in one of the sheds at the ranch, and remembered that. You didn’t see Serena; I’ve been all over those rocks. I know exactly where you stood; you couldn’t have seen Serena. You wouldn’t have taken such a chance if you had. But you stood there and—when Luisa came out on the ledge just below you and looked out over the ocean you dropped a noose around her neck and pulled it so tight and so hard she couldn’t scream.”

“No …”

“Yes. But I thought I must be wrong. I thought if that had happened like that—Luisa would have fallen against the rocks, not over the ledge. Then I suddenly saw the picture clearly. As Leda must have seen it when she saw you buying another rope. Luisa whirled around and put both hands up to fight the thing around her neck—and you released it suddenly so she fell backward over the ledge. And was gone. That’s the way you did it. Isn’t it?”

Blank, animal eyes stared into the light; his mouth moved and said nothing.

“But it was Amanda you really meant to kill. The next day you went to Gregory’s and bought another rope. Perhaps you could manage somehow to repeat—only with Amanda as your victim this time. And Leda came in and saw you; and you knew she’d seen you.”

“No …”

“Yes. A rope was sold at Gregory’s that day, for cash. But when I showed your picture—and other pictures—to the clerk who sold the rope she said it was like you except the man to whom she sold it was wearing glasses. In the picture you’d taken off your glasses. That was this afternoon. Dave—there was a bicycle once—where is it now?”

Dave’s eyes just stared into the light for another second or two. Then slowly his head dropped forward.

“It was there the day Luisa was killed. I said to you, ‘Let’s take the bike.’ You said it was broken, that it would be quicker over the rocks. That was the way you came back, so you reached the place ahead of Serena.”

“Crazy …” muttered the slack lips. “I tell you I’m crazy!”

“Dave,” said Jem slowly, “I had your car the day Leda was killed. You thought that was an alibi, later. If the bicycle was broken you fixed it. You used it to come to Monterey that afternoon. To go to Gregory’s for rope. How did Leda get here?”

“In Alice’s car.”

“Go on. Tell me …”

His voice was suddenly clear and his words coherent. “There’s not much to tell. I saw Leda just as I’d paid for the rope. She didn’t think I’d seen her, but I could tell from—oh, something about her, that it had given her an idea. I couldn’t let her go, of course, after that. I had to kill Amanda. I couldn’t let anything stop me until I had killed Amanda. You—you do see that?”

“You followed Leda?”

“No. First I telephoned to Serena. I didn’t know what—what I was going to have to do. That is, I did know what I was going to have to do, but not exactly how. So I thought it’d help to make an alibi for me, you know, if I talked to someone over the telephone and said I was in the cottage and you were with the police. You were, you know, Jem, for an hour or so that afternoon. You were there when I left. The station wagon was still in the garage. You thought I was in my laboratory. I knew you wouldn’t disturb me. But I’m—that’s not what I was talking about. That was when I took the bicycle and went to Monterey. Monterey is larger than Carmel; nobody would remember that I’d bought a rope. You have to be very careful, you know, about those things. Well, then—oh, yes; you know about that; I’ve told you. Leda. Well, I telephoned to Serena and told her what I told her. But that was a mistake. I was nervous and I wasn’t thinking very clearly—you see, when I got to the street again Leda had disappeared.”

“What did you do? How did you find out she’d gone to Casa Madrone?”

“Well. It’s the way the peninsula is shaped, you see. If she was going home—or to Carmel—she’d have to take either the Seventeen Mile Drive or the direct Monterey-to-Carmel road. I couldn’t be sure, of course, that she’d do either. She—but it was my only chance to pick her up. The road from Monterey to Carmel is shorter. I decided on that, got my bicycle and went down to some clumps of broom just at the outskirts of Monterey. I waited, out of sight. I was afraid I’d missed her altogether. But in only a few minutes I saw Alice’s car come along. And Leda was driving. So I followed …”

“At four miles an hour?”

Dave’s mouth made a queer grimace. “Oh, I was way behind. But you know that long hill up to the Hill Gate, as you leave Monterey?”

“Of course.”

“I could see her ahead. All the way to the top of the hill. If she’d looked in the mirror she could have seen me—with the package of rope on my handlebars.”

A strange and terrible picture flashed across Serena’s mind; terrible because it was so commonplace. A woman driving up that long hill—a man far behind, following, with a rope wrapped in paper, on the handlebars.

Jem said out of the dusk: “You saw her turn, then, at the top of the hill?”

“Yes. To the left instead of the right. So I knew she must be coming here. If she’d been going to the Condit ranch, or Carmel, or even my place, she’d have gone straight ahead. If she’d been going home, she’d have turned right. I couldn’t be sure, of course, but—I came on to Casa Madrone. It was queer to find Alice’s car there in the courtyard …”

“But it wasn’t there …” began Serena. Dave went on as if he hadn’t heard it.

“Leda had got there long before I came and was in the house, sitting there smoking. I could smell her cigarette when I came in the back door. She didn’t hear me, of course. She was waiting, for a car—listening for that. I know that now. Serena’s car. I’d hid the bicycle back in the shrubs. I—oh, it was simple. She wasn’t expecting it and I just dropped the rope around her neck and pulled hard. She struggled, but I was behind her and braced myself against the chair. And then she collapsed and when I was sure she was dead, I removed the rope. I thought I’d better do something about Alice’s car. It struck me that Leda was waiting for somebody. I had to move quickly. I ran out the back door and around the house to the front again. I put my bicycle in the back of the car—or as far as it would go. I had to leave the door open.”

His voice died away. His eyes still looked blank and glassy.

Jem said: “But you came back.”

“Yes. I got out to the road and began to think maybe she wasn’t really dead. I—so I drove the car off the main road, up under some trees and hurried back. It wasn’t far. But she was dead. And then the station wagon drove up and I thought it was Amanda. I ran upstairs. I meant to make them think Amanda did it.”

“How did you know where to leave Alice’s car?”

“Oh, that was easy. I got to Monterey, stopped at a soft drink place and telephoned Alice’s house. I knew it was Alice’s car, of course. The maid said Alice was at the hospital. So I left the bicycle on the street—it’s a little side street—and drove to the hospital. There was a risk in leaving it; later it seemed horrible to have taken such a risk. But just then I didn’t—seem to realize it. I left the car in an empty parking space. It was luck later that Alice thought it was where she’d left it; perhaps it was. Then I got my bicycle again. It was foggy, and getting dark by that time. Nobody saw me go through Carmel. By the time I got home it was dark. But I’d reached there by the time you telephoned to me. So I was safe.”

“They saw the bicycle today, Dave. Caught on some rocks …”

Dave sighed heavily. He lifted his head to stare blankly again into the light. “That’s how you knew. It’s all over then. I had to kill her, you know.”

“Why?”

“Why? The bracelet, of course.”

“Dave, Amanda said Sutton was the original sucker. Sutton himself said he used to give money away, loan it …”

The ravaged face in the light suddenly acquired a terrible dignity.

“Sutton believed in me and what I was doing. I had no money. Sutton gave me money. He financed everything. And then Amanda married him. Ever since then, somehow, he’s given me enough to keep me going. But she didn’t know it until a few months ago. And then she—made Sutton stop. Oh, I can’t make you understand.”

“I began to wonder how you lived. I knew you didn’t practice medicine. Go on.”

“Well, in three years—four at the most—I was pretty sure I’d have got something I was working on proved and ready for use. It takes time—I’ll tell you about it if—but I suppose there’s not time. No, I can see there’s not time. Well—Amanda found out. Sutton and I—it had always been a secret between us. Sutton believed in me; he wanted a share, he said, in my work. He’s an idealist, you know. But Amanda got hold of the check book for his own private account. She didn’t tell him; she came to me. She said they were going to lose the ranch. She said it was all over; that she couldn’t let Sutton give me any more money—ever. I—begged. It’s queer to think of it—begging Amanda. But it was for time, for all my hopes for saving the lives of other people. I—that was my life, you see—my work. And through it I was going to do so much for the world. I don’t suppose you believe me. All I’ve done is destroy. But I wasn’t going to destroy. I was going to save … I was always going to find ways to save human life. And now—because a woman wanted a jewel to wear on her wrist … You see, when I saw the bracelet I knew how she’d lied to me. About needing the money. She wasn’t even afraid of me. She was afraid of Bill because he threatened her. But she wasn’t even afraid of me.”

Dave blinked slowly in the light. “She gave me a farewell party! And for me it
was
farewell! For me everything was washed up. My draft number had come up. If I’d had the money for experiment I’d have got deferred. I’m sure I could have got deferred. But I didn’t have any money; there was nowhere in a war year to get it. I was—on the borderline, Jem, all that day—the day Serena came home. That was when I was up at the Condit place and shot at Luisa and—oh, no, I wasn’t sane. But I’d pulled myself together; I hadn’t much time to do anything; I’d had my notice; I knew I had only one more week. And then that night—Amanda wore the bracelet. I’ve read. I’m a doctor. But nothing you read and nothing you know with your mind prepares you for what your own mind can do. I must have gone crazy that night, Jem. You don’t do the things I’ve done if your mind is clear and cool. I crept out of the cottage, quietly, so you wouldn’t hear me, and made a last attempt to get money from Luisa. As I left the Condit patio, you came. I heard you along the road and waited until you’d passed. And came home and—by the time you got back to the cottage, Jem, the laboratory was in a shambles. Everything I’d done—everything I hoped to do. My whole life. “Yes,” said Dave simply, “I was mad. I’m sure I was mad. It was the bracelet—and …” his voice which had been strained and monotonous changed; dignity came back into his face. He said very clearly, very quietly: “Yes. I’m a doctor. And I know there’s not much more time. Thank you, Jem. You knew …”

“Yes. But it was accident. I didn’t mean …”

“A lucky accident for me. A merciful accident. I might not—stay mad.” He got up, wavering. His face was eerily white and drained of_ feeling. “You’d better take me to the police, Jem. Hurry …” He lurched off the veranda.

“Wait—I’ll help you,” said Jem. Serena made a motion forward and checked it. “I’ll take him to the car. Will you come, Serena, or …”

The house no longer held terror. There was only sorrow now in the night and a wasted life. “I’ll stay here.”

“Right. I’ll be back …”

By the time they reached the dark tunnel of the driveway, Jem’s tall, solid figure, black in the night, was supporting Dave’s slighter one.

It was not long really before Jem came back. The clouds had gone out toward the sea; the night was clear. “Serena,” he called as he crossed the courtyard, light and clear now in the starlight.

“I’m here, Jem.”

He came to her and sat beside her on the low veranda. The shadow of the house fell softly now upon them both; as if he needed it, he reached for her hand and held it for a moment against his face.

“Has he—gone?”

“Yes, Serena. On a long journey.”

“Was he mad?” she asked presently.

Jem sighed heavily. “No. Oh, I don’t know where the doctors draw a line between pathological madness, and the kind of horrible thing that must happen in a man’s mind before he can commit a murder, but there is a line. Dave was not mad. He tried to excuse himself to us, in a queer, tragic way, by claiming madness. If there’d been a trial he might have known how to simulate a true pathology convincingly enough to persuade a jury. But actually …” he sighed again and shook his head. “No. His motive was perfectly clear. He simply hated Amanda; she had ruined his life. He believed it passionately; he had the blindly one-sided view of the zealot. Perhaps he had a brainstorm, a wave of frenzy, of wild fury—whatever happens to enable anybody to do murder. But his claim of insanity was not true.”

“How did he know about the step? Only Amanda and I could have known …”

“Because he’d gone up that stairway when he heard you arrive in the station wagon. Which meant almost certainly that he had murdered Leda. The pity of it is that the remedy was in his own hands. If he’d put away his experiments, gone to war, given his services as best he could, he might have saved himself. He couldn’t see that. To him there was only his way to serve humanity; to him the end of his work was really the end of everything. Well, we’d better go …”