Hasty Wedding (7 page)

And she was to say something—repeat—but she couldn’t speak.

Jevan, so only the bishop saw, put his hand upon her own so tightly it hurt and she repeated: “I, Dorcas Mary …” in a whisper.

Jevan’s voice was low too. Everything was very still except the low, mellow tones from the organ which seemed to move quietly but almost tangibly about her.

There was a ring—Jevan’s hands and the bishop’s and her own—now they were putting it on, slipping it firmly on the bare finger, and she remembered Cary slitting that left glove and her small, intent face bent over the task. That was only yesterday.

They were to kneel. She did so, Jevan again beside her.

The prayer was short. Were they to stand now? Yes, only she couldn’t. Jevan helped her. Jevan turned and took her hand firmly on his arm and great waves of melody swam about the church and lifted them out along the swelling tide, past faces, past bridesmaids, past everyone.

He was taking her swiftly through the vestibule. Willy Devany was holding the great outer door against the wind. His face was very white and he was crying, strangely and instead of congratulations, “Hurry—the car’s waiting—hurry.”

Grayson was at the door with the car. There were more faces, people along the sidewalk. Wind flapped the awning sharply over her head. Jevan gathered up her veil and she was in the car and a newsboy wriggled under somebody’s arm and shouted: “News—news—all about …” and thrust a paper at them.

There were black headlines on that paper, too, and Dorcas saw them and they said:
RONALD DREW MURDERED.

“Hurry, Grayson. Never mind the cops. Get going,” cried Jevan and jumped into the car beside her.

He jerked down the rear shade and put his arm tightly, brusquely around her and pulled her close to him, so his mouth was at her cheek.

“Don’t say anything,” he said, watching Grayson. “The chauffeur will hear. I know you killed him.”

T
HE CAR MOVED SMOOTHLY
and rapidly ahead and his arm held her so tightly against him that she couldn’t move. In a queer little top layer of her mind which went right on thinking about the small surface things such as the rain against the car windows and Grayson’s stiff neck and neat cap, and the long two-noted whistle of the traffic policeman at the corner—in that top layer she had an odd notion that if she spoke he would stop her, cover her mouth with his hand if need be.

It was, in that first instant or two, her only recognition of the thing. Ronald, said the newspapers, was murdered. It wasn’t suicide, it was a murder. And Jevan had said he knew …

“No, no, no
——”

“Stop that!” He thrust her back against the seat and leaned forward toward the dividing window, which was open. “How does this thing work?” He found the lever and turned it rapidly. A sheet of glass lifted smoothly between the driver’s seat and the tonneau of the long, gliding car. He sat back again beside her, glanced at her once and said: “All right. He can’t hear unless you have hysterics or something. Now listen, Dorcas. I know you killed Ronald. I don’t blame you; he was a scoundrel and you—never mind that. I only want you to know——”

“I didn’t kill him. He was alive when I left the apartment. He—he pushed the telephone off the table. He was alive——”

“Does anybody else know you were there?”

“No. Yes—that is, there was a doorman, I think…You don’t understand. I knew nothing of this. I——”

“The doorman! Did he know you? I mean, had you—had you been there often enough for him to know and recognize you?”

He wasn’t looking at her now; he was watching the traffic ahead grimly, his mouth tight, his profile remote and enigmatic. There was a sweet heavy fragrance from her bouquet in her lap. Her satin train was over her knees, her white veil floating around her, obscuring her vision; there was the small sprig of lily of the valley in his buttonhole. His silk hat and gloves lay on the seat beside him. The car stopped for a traffic light and all around them other cars in the heavy noon traffic along Michigan stopped, too, and waited, engines throbbing, people inside the cars at either side of them turning to stare at a bride. Pavements glistened; lights glimmered palely from store windows; the traffic policemen in shining wet mackintoshes strove to direct that throbbing, pushing stream of cars and blew whistles frantically.

It was a world gone completely fantastic. In just twenty-four hours it had changed itself entirely, as if it had been overtaken by a new and strange dimension which distorted even familiar things—a well-known street, weather, faces she knew. And it wasn’t a nightmare, for it was too real.

“Well—had you been there often?” said Jevan again, crisply.

“No. The doorman couldn’t have recognized me. No one knew I was there.” Too real; altogether too real, for it was happening and Ronald was murdered and she had been in his apartment just before that murder and the police would question her.

“I knew you were there,” said Jevan. “I was there too. Later.”

He paused but as she said nothing he went on swiftly: “You’d better know what I did.”

The traffic policeman’s whistle pealed weirdly through the rain and wind, through the hum and rush of tires and grinding of gears.

“You see, I got there just after you’d gone. In fact the cigarette was still smoking. I—well, I saw at once that he was dead. There was no question but that he died almost instantly. There was no use to call a doctor; I couldn’t possibly have done anything for him. He must have died the moment the bullet—entered his forehead.”

She was going to faint. For the first time in her healthy young life she was going to faint, for things all around her were dim and moving erratically out of focus and she felt very sick

“Jevan!” It was a little, sick gasp. He heard and turned and took her quickly in his arms and put her head on his shoulder and rolled down the window beside him.

Dimly she knew he was fumbling with the veil over her face, finding the edge at last and pushing it back so fresh, cold air blew upon her face.

“You can’t faint,” he said sharply. “Listen, Dorcas. You can’t. You’ve got to talk to me—there’re only a few minutes to arrange everything.”

His voice wavered in Dorcas’ ears as humming blackness threatened to submerge it.

“Dorcas—Dorcas! Listen. You’ve got to pull yourself together. We’ve got to go through this day as if nothing had happened. Understand? You must do it!”

The compulsion in his voice reached her through those engulfing waves. His arms supported her; his cheek was against her head. Grayson saw it in the mirror but did not smile. He was too well trained and besides, that morning he was uneasy. He had seen the papers; the whole household knew of the trouble upstairs. But he knew, too, that young Mr Devany had been very queer and insistent about making sure that the car was exactly at the door the moment the ceremony was over; that young Mr Devany had been very nervous. And he, too, as they left the church had glimpsed the headlines.

Murder.

He looked quickly in the mirror again and away as quickly when he met Mr Locke’s eyes. Involuntarily, under that look, he trod harder on the accelerator.

Dorcas felt the car gain in speed. Jevan was talking again, steadily and with sharp compulsion in his voice.

“I found Drew dead. I knew you had just gone. I—did everything I could. There was no use, as I said, to try to do anything for him. He was dead. Are you listening to me, Dorcas? Do you understand?”

Blackness was receding. She became more fully aware of his arms, holding her tightly but without warmth or tenderness.

“Answer me, Dorcas.”

“Yes. Yes, I understand.” Did she?

There was an instant’s silence. His arms were tight and motionless. Then he said calmly: “Can you sit up now? Are you all right? …That’s good.”

She was sitting upright again; she had drawn away from him or his arms had neatly withdrawn and left her, now that she seemed no longer to need support. He searched her face and said tersely:

“It’s only five minutes or so to the house and God knows what we’ll find when we get there. And there’s no telling when I’ll get a chance to talk to you alone again. I want you to pay attention to me.”

But there was something she must know. Everybody must know. Everybody in the world.

“Jevan, I didn’t kill him. I know nothing about it. You must listen to me.” Her voice, horrifyingly, was thin and frightened and unconvincing. It sounded to her own ears far away; as if somebody else was talking, protesting futilely.

His eyes went quickly away from her own. He glanced out the window; they were already at the lake and dark waves broke tumultuously against the white breakwaters.

“We are almost there. There’ll be guests, hordes of people. You must act as if nothing had happened. Understand me? Go through with that reception and—and whatever comes afterward as if you knew nothing at all of the murder. Don’t try to think now. But do as I say. You——” He turned then and looked at her briefly and said coolly: “Your very life depends upon it, you know.”

“Jevan——”

“When they question you, simply deny having been at his apartment.”

“But I——”

“Listen to me, Dorcas. I married you just now. You’re my wife. You must do this.”

His wife. Dorcas Locke. But Ronald …

“But I didn’t murder him. I know nothing of it.”

A hard, taut little mask came over Jevan’s brown face.

“All right,” he said abruptly. “You know nothing of the murder. But nevertheless, do as I say. Deny having been in his apartment last night. Deny having seen him at all. And—if you have a grain of courage, take your part this day as gallantly as you can. If they give us time to prepare we may think up some sort of plan—but they may not give us time.”

They? Police? Oh, impossible!

“Deny everything,” repeated Jevan. “If you don’t know what to say refuse to reply. If they know too much, if they question you too much, refuse to answer and say you must have your lawyer’s advice. Understand me?”

Her lips moved numbly.

“Yes.”

Again he shot a quick, dark look at her.

“I don’t think you do,” he said, shaking his head. “Good God, rouse yourself. You look and act as if you were half asleep. Don’t you see the danger——”

The car stopped. Grayson was out, holding open the car door. Immediately the house door was flung open and lights poured out, only to lose themselves in the gray, diffuse light. Wind and rain again on her face.

Jevan helped her out. At the door his grip on her arm tightened and she felt him take a quick, short breath that was like an exclamation. He leaned over her, shielding her from the rain, and they ran up the steps and at the top he said urgently: “Remember, Dorcas …”

There were lights in the hall and people. Bench, looking pale and upset. Mamie, very red faced and crying. No guests yet. Cary and Sophie and Marcus hadn’t, of course, had time to arrive. But somebody was there already—several men who must be guests, yet they were not dressed for a wedding reception. Dorcas saw that and stopped. One of the men stepped forward and said: “Miss Whipple?”

She had an instant’s clear glimpse of him—a slender, dark little man with a bored, sallow face and morose, heavy dark eyes. Two other men stepped forward, too, one at each side of the speaker, as if they were supporting him.

“Miss Whipple?” he said again. Mamie gave a sob in the background and cried: “Oh, Miss Dorcas, they’ve been everywhere. All over the house and in your room and——”

The little dark man glanced once at Mamie and said: “Shut up.” Bench automatically closed the outside door. Jevan’s arm went around Dorcas. The slender, dark man said: “You are Miss Whipple, aren’t you?” as if some identification was necessary.

“Why—y-yes.”

Jevan’s arm pulled her backward a little so he seemed to interpose his own body between her and the advancing men.

“This is Mrs Locke,” he said. “My wife. What is your business with her?”

There was an instant of complete and utter silence, an instant that hung suspended and static, capable of sharp, clear analysis. These men were intruders and they were dangerous. Their presence in that hall was a threat. Their observant, waiting eyes a menace. Even the hall—wide and silent, with its polished floors and its thin rugs, its bronze boy and its marble woman, its glimpses into other rooms of gilt chairs and flowers and a flower-banked mantel off in the drawing room at the right where the bride and wedding party were to receive—even the hall rejected the intruders. The whole silent house, waiting and empty as yet except of its own being, rejected them.

A man, uniformed and from the caterer’s, scurried across the back of the hall, away back under the stair, casting a curious, sharp glance at them above the tray laden with silver. Off somewhere in the distance a violin wailed softly and was tuned. Another violin, and then a piano was struck in four clear little notes.

Over everything was the floating odor of coffee and of flowers. Dorcas’ own flowers, held rigidly before her, sent up a soft warm fragrance of gardenias and lily of the valley.

It was an instant that engraved itself in clear, small lines upon her perceptions and, afterward, upon her memory so that the scent of gardenia was always to recall, not a visual memory of the lighted hall, the somber background of polished dark wood, the faces of three men all staring at her, but instead a sense of danger.

The dark little man was fumbling in a pocket of his brown tweed coat. He pulled out a paper, glanced at it and shoved it back into the pocket as if it didn’t matter. He looked at Jevan and addressed him briefly:

“My name’s Jacob Wait. I’m from headquarters.”

“Well?”

“I’ve come here to investigate the murder of Ronald Drew.”

“Investigate? What do you mean?”

“I mean I came to see Miss Dorcas Whipple.” Jevan started to speak and the man Wait made a small, gentle gesture with one extraordinarily mobile and expressive hand. “All right,” he said. “Mrs Locke. It doesn’t matter. I have the proper authority if you want to see it.”

“Why? Mrs Locke knows nothing of the murder.”

“Mrs Locke,” said Jacob Wait, “talked to Ronald Drew last night. I’m in a hurry. Do you want to answer my questions here, Mrs Locke, or would you prefer going to headquarters?”