Hasty Wedding (21 page)

As if the mirrors had known it was going to happen. As if the very walls had known what they were about to witness and had warned her; had said go, go quickly, go before it is too late.

She reached the hall and there was the door to the apartment. No one was about and there was no sound. The light was dim in the long narrow hall but the whole length of it was visible and she was sure there was no one there.

She listened. There were no voices from the apartment. It was at least twenty minutes after nine.

She was unprepared; she hadn’t thought of entering the apartment; she hadn’t considered what she was going to do except that she must come. Should she go back to the first floor and ring? But it seemed silly to ring an empty apartment. Besides, the doorman would see her; she couldn’t risk it a second time. She had, of course, no key. Stupid of her.

But she had expected someone to be there—Willy and—and this girl. Elise. And Jevan.

Well, what could she do? There was certainly no one anywhere around. There was no sound at all coming from the other side of that neat, white-painted door with
RONALD DREW
on a card still affixed in a little neat panel upon it.

She put out her hand as if to knock.

And saw what in the semi-dusk of the hall she had not before seen.

The door was open perhaps an inch and the room beyond was dark.

T
HEY HAD BEEN THERE,
then, and had gone. Or they had not come yet and the door had been left open for them when they came. (Who left it open or by what arrangement did not occur to her.) Or they were not coming and the notice in the paper had meant some other Elise; some other apartment; some other concern.

Speculations, none of them very sensible, raced through her mind as she stood there, looking at that black strip. There was still no sound from inside the apartment and the half-formed impulse to knock or even to speak died away. What was beyond the door? An empty apartment of course. And if they hadn’t yet come they would come soon. By “they” she meant Jevan. Jevan and Willy and the mysterious Elise.

She never thought of the plainly prudent coarse, which was to go away. To go back home and wait until Jevan returned, or Willy. She would probably, in the end, have done that very thing, however, had not the elevator rumbled in the distance and stopped at that floor.

It brought an unexpected end to her isolation. The narrow hall which she remembered with poignant clearness stretched away past other doors (past the door into the kitchen of Ronald’s apartment, among others) to a dim red light indicating a fire escape at its other end. Midway it was bisected by a wider corridor upon which the elevator opened. Thus the elevator door was not visible from where she stood but she could hear it; could hear it stop and the door as it slid open, and the voices of people.

They mustn’t see her there. Her picture was in all the papers; they would recognize her immediately.

The voices came nearer, laughing; there were several people. The instant before they reached the intersection of the corridors Dorcas pushed the door of the apartment further open and stepped into the darkness beyond. It was altogether dark with only a small path of light coming from the open door and falling dimly on the carpet and a corner of a white divan. There was not a sound in the apartment and the voices in the corridor outside seemed to be receding. She waited.

Still no sound. Certainly the apartment was empty. But the door was open and it was by this time considerably after nine.

Somewhere near the door there must be the electric light switch; Ronald’s hand had reached behind her and pressed it. She fumbled into the darkness beside the door. She could not find the switch for a moment and in that moment the room around her became strangely sentient, reminding her insistently of the other time she had stood at that door. She had a quick, queer consciousness of, particularly, the mirrors, watching from the darkness around her and adding a new chapter to their silent record. Then she found the little button and pulled it downward and it clicked and there was no light.

No light. But naturally it had been turned off; they always cut off light and gas in an empty apartment. Probably the apartment would be empty for some time; until what had happened there was forgotten.

Ought she to go and try otherwise to find Jevan? Or ought she to wait? Wait and remember Ronald’s flushed face and bright eyes, eyes that looked over her shoulder as if someone were there and when she had turned there was no one. Only a white door that seemed just to quiver into place. “You can’t go. I won’t let you go…, The old melodramas from which I have so lavishly borrowed …darling…”

She mustn’t let herself remember. Just beside her was the white divan; in the darkness a little away was the table which had held the white table lamp. And the telephone. Beside the table Ronald had fallen.

The voices from the corridor had completely died away.

The time during which she stood there in the darkness, undecided, assailed by things the room itself seemed to seek to remind her of, could have been actually only a moment or two, although it seemed much longer. The door had of its own volition swung slowly back to its original position, so now the band of faint light from the hall was only an inch or two in width. And except for the ugly memories which surrounded her as the darkness surrounded her, so Ronald’s face swam out of it, Ronald’s face and Ronald’s words, she had not a sense of danger. Instead it seemed safe. Safe and deserted, except for the mirrors, and if anyone approached by way of the stairway she would know it.

She must have decided to wait, for she turned to grope for the white divan and it was just as her fingers touched the rough fabric that she realized someone else was in the room.

She never knew exactly how she knew it unless it was by the barely perceptible little sound of suction as if a door somewhere opened. But she did know it and she knew that the door that opened so gently but unmistakably was either the door leading to the kitchen or the bedroom door.

Her fingers froze on the divan. There was no sound—or was there the barely audible sound of light footsteps across the room? She could see nothing in that suffocating blackness, could hear nothing except—except all at once, breaking out into that silence in queer jumbled rush, there was a voice. Two voices, indistinguishable and muffled, and then, blinding, bewildering, terribly loud and yet muffled, the sound of a revolver shot.

It was a quick, reverberating shock of sound, mingled suddenly with other sounds, footsteps running, a door banging somewhere and another door, a rush of motion in the blackness of the room and more footsteps running lightly somewhere near her.

She must have tried to reach the door beside her and escape that fated apartment, for all at once she found herself clutching into the darkness for the door, suddenly and sharply aware of someone very near her and then, before she could stop herself, her hands encountered the rough material of a coat which bumped squarely into her. Arms fumbled and flung themselves around her and—and it was Jevan, She knew it was Jevan. His close embrace, his nearness, that intangible, primitive something that makes recognition told her it was Jevan.

And he must have known her by the same elemental sense, for he was sharply still for an instant and then his arms held her closer and he cried huskily: “Dorcas! You here!”

She clung to him. There were retreating sounds somewhere—or were there? It was all at once very quiet.

“Good God, Dorcas——”

His face was against her own. “Dorcas, what are you doing here?”

“I came—oh, Jevan, what was it—the shot——”

“Don’t tremble like that. It’s all right. I’ll see to things. I’ll—wait, Dorcas, let me shut that door. If anyone heard——”

His arms left her. In the immense silence that followed that momentary confusion and chaos of sound she could hear him move to the door and close it very softly, shutting out that crack of light, and she heard him move back toward her through the complete darkness. His hands reached for her and he whispered: “Dorcas, you’ve got to get out of here. I’ll help you. You know—that. Where’s the revolver?”

“Revolver?”

“Yes, I——” He stopped. His arms were around her again, holding her close to him. He said all at once, clearly in the silence, “I’ve got matches. Wait, Dorcas.”

Again his arms relinquished her. She could hear him search in his pockets and then there was the sputter of a match. It didn’t light the room; it made only a small and flickering glow as he held it and looked at her and around him and turned abruptly toward the open bedroom door.

She followed him. Just at the bedroom door a small hidden draft struck the little flame and it wavered once and went out.

Jevan swore and struck another.

It flared and he went into the bedroom and stopped almost on the threshold. She saw him moisten his lips. She saw the flame jerk and steady itself in his hands. She heard him mutter something that sounded like, “Don’t look,” but it was too late.

For she, too, now could see it. Flung down like so much rubbish, something used and thrown away, a woman lay huddled between the two beds. Blond hair was disheveled under a small green hat which was crushed under her head. A checked sport coat had fallen apart, showing a shabby black crepe dress. Little high-heeled pumps, one of them turned fantastically as she had fallen, had thin soles and scuffed toes. And that match burned down to Jevan’s fingers and went out, making a tiny red spark in the blackness.

“It’s Elise,” said Jevan. “It’s Elise.”

He must have lighted another match. Dorcas clung to a chair and watched the little light moving around as if Jevan were looking for something. A candle of course. He found it, however, in the living room and lighted it and it made a larger, clearer flame and was an ornamental white candle, huge and heavily dipped in gold and added a nightmare note to the thing. For the flame was picked up by the watchful mirrors and reflected a hundred times and the shadowy silhouettes of their figures were reflected, too, eerily, so they filled the room.

Then the flame moved toward the bedroom and vanished and left the mirrors blank again.

Jevan was kneeling, holding the candle with one hand, like a solitary vigil light above the dead girl.

“Is she …?” began Dorcas and Jevan said he didn’t know. He said he couldn’t tell. He held the candle over Elise’s crumpled, tragic little body and said there was blood on her dress and he couldn’t tell whether she was alive or dead and he’d get a doctor.

And he got up again from where he’d been kneeling in that crowded space between the two white, couchlike beds and came to Dorcas.

“You’ve got to get out first,” he said. “Understand, Dorcas. I think she’s still alive; at least there’s a chance. So I’m going to get a doctor here. And you must leave.”

“But——”

“Oh, my darling,” cried Jevan suddenly. “When I found you here I thought you’d killed her and I——” His voice broke. The candlelight made his face look very white and masklike. He said: “But you didn’t. I know you didn’t. So I’ve got to—what’s the matter, Dorcas? Why are you looking so strangely at me? Why——”

“But I thought—I heard the shot and then you came and I thought—for a moment—just an instant, Jevan, I thought you—but I wasn’t afraid. But now I know it wasn’t you.”

There was a small, clear silence. Then Jevan said jerkily: “Faith. Blind, instinctive faith. Queer… I know you didn’t fire the shot. And you’re willing to believe that I—all right, Dorcas. We’ll stand together. Except I’m going to make you leave now. Before the doctor comes. I’ll call him. There’s a chance of saving her. And I’m going to call the police. As soon as you——”

Jevan turned toward the telephone. He was saying something about getting the doctor first. “Then we’ll find a way to get you out of here before he comes,” said Jevan and put his hand on the telephone; exactly as he did so it rang. The sharp shrill of it was horribly loud and demanding. Jevan jerked his hand away as if the thing had been electrically charged and his eyes darted around the apartment and fastened on the door that led to the kitchen and he cried: “I’m a fool. Wait, Dorcas. Don’t touch the telephone.” He ran, leaving the candle on the table, to the door, pulled it open and disappeared. The telephone rang again and behind her, in the darkness of the bedroom, a girl with bright blond hair and a checked coat lay with blood on her dress and staining the floor.

Who? Not Jevan—not Jevan. But who then?

Jevan was back, running, face emerging into the faint light from the candle.

“There’s nobody in the kitchen.” He flung an empty book of matches upon the table. “I was a fool not to look sooner. There’s been plenty of time for him to get away. I didn’t realize …” The telephone shrilled again and he took it and said: “Hello … hello …”

“Don’t answer,” cried Dorcas. “Don’t——”

“It’s the police,” whispered Jevan. “It’s Wait.” And spoke into the telephone. “Yes, I’m here. And, Wait, get a doctor, will you? Hurry. All right. I’ll stay here. But listen—listen to me. There’s a dead girl here. At least … Yes, I know. But whoever killed her has just escaped. I don’t know who … All right. All right.”

He put down the telephone. A queer flash of something like admiration went over his face. “What a man,” he said and turned swiftly to Dorcas. “But he’s not to find you here. Come on, Dorcas. There’s a way out. Down the hall there’s a service door. It’s just opposite the elevator. You’ll have to be careful. Watch the elevator. For God’s sake, hurry——”

“I’m not going.”

“Have you left anything—gloves, bag—where——”

“Jevan, I’m not going.”

This time he heard her and jerked around toward her, his face jutting out in sharp relief above the candle flame.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m going to stay. With you. I didn’t shoot her and you didn’t and we——”

He didn’t stop to convince her. He simply took her up in his arms, sweeping her off the floor, and carried her to the door leading to the kitchen. There was no use struggling against him.

“You’ve got to go. You’re a little fool if you don’t. I can’t carry you. You’ve got to …” They were in the kitchen and the door was open and a flashlight streamed fully upon them. Beyond the blinding light Wait’s voice said in a leisurely way: