Hasty Wedding (8 page)

“She’ll talk to you here,” said Jevan. “Here and now. Bench——”

“Yes sir.”

“Where can we go——”

“Mr Whipple’s study, sir. Wedding guests will be arriving shortly.”

“Will you …?” Jevan gestured briefly toward the narrow little passage that led off the main hall toward Penn Whipple’s study.

In the distance the violins, joined now by a harp and a cello, began to play softly a Strauss waltz and the delicate melody floated along the passage around them.

The study was chilly and dark. Jevan turned on the lights. Wait and the two men with him, still supporting him like the wings of an army, followed them into the room. Jevan himself closed the door and shut out the light-footed, incongruously gay little melody.

“Now then,” he said. “What do you want to ask my wife?”

H
IS WIFE. WELL, SHE
was that now. And she felt no different at all. But then the new dimension that had overtaken them pushed out normal feeling and thought; there was room only for horror, for catastrophe. He pulled a chair up for her—her father’s great armchair. She sank down into it; her veil floated eerily around her and she put it back from her face and realized she was still carrying her bouquet and put that down on the shining mahogany table before her. Automatically, too, she stripped long white gloves from fingers that were heavy and lifeless. The man who had introduced himself as Jacob Wait, a name that for an instant seemed to have a slightly familiar ring, as if she’d heard it somewhere before, simply stood there at the other side of the table looking at her. The black leather of the great chair was cold and seemed damp to her touch. She leaned back in it, a slender figure in sheath-like white satin with silver slippers that barely touched the old Turkey-red rug. On the opposite wall a steel-engraved “Stag at Bay” stared blankly down and covered a clumsy, old-fashioned safe. All around the room bookshelves covered with glass reflected their figures weirdly in disjointed, shadowy sections. The room had been used very little since Pennyforth Whipple’s death; was, in fact, rather avoided, and it had the indescribable air of desuetude such rooms take on with years.

Jacob Wait thrust his hands in his pockets and said: “You knew Ronald Drew?”

“Certainly she knew him. So did I. So did hundreds of other people.” It was Jevan answering for her. Wait said abruptly:

“I’m talking to Mrs Locke. Let her answer for herself. Did you know Ronald Drew, Mrs Locke?”

Mrs Locke? She moistened her lips and said: “Yes,” almost inaudibly.

“How well did you know him?”

Jevan took a quick step forward and said: “See here, you can’t——”

“I’ll ask what I need to ask. Do you want to stay in the room?”

“Certainly.”

“Then keep quiet. How well did you know Drew? Answer me, Mrs Locke.”

How well had she known Ronald? The three faces—Wait’s in the center—all three like searchlights, pinioning her with inquiry, waiting inexorably for her reply. Jevan moved over to stand beside her. And all at once she saw her danger.

Jevan had foreseen it. He had known it was to come and had warned her. She sought back frantically in her mind for the things he had told her to do. She was trapped; she had to fight for herself; no one else, now, could do it for her.

What had he said? Oh yes, deny. Deny everything. Deny …

“I knew Ronald Drew,” she said in a small but fairly steady voice. “I don’t know anything about his death.”

Wait blinked and one of the men beside him lifted thin sparse eyebrows as if in surprise. Jevan did not move. Wait said:

“You knew he was murdered?”

“Yes.”

“Who told you?”

“It was in the paper. I saw the headlines.”

“Do you know anything of the circumstances of the murder?”

“No.”

Wait looked impatient. “Mrs Locke, you talked to Drew last night. We have the record of his telephone call to you at seven o’clock last night. It’s the last telephone call he made. Why did he call you?”

Then they didn’t know she had actually been in the apartment! Or did they know and were they merely trying to trap her into acknowledgment of it? Jevan had said deny; deny everything.

Instinctively, more frightened than she knew, she clung to it. Later there would be time to think, to reason, to seek a way out of the thing. Just now he had said to deny. But she’d have to admit to that telephone call if they had the record of it.

“Yes, he called me. He wanted to talk to me. He knew my wedding was today.”

“What did he say?”

Jevan was so rigidly motionless that it was as if he had spoken a warning.

“He—he spoke of my approaching wedding. He wanted to say good-by to me.”

“What else?”

“That’s—that’s all.”

“How long did you talk?”

“Only a moment or two.”

Again Wait made a little gesture of impatience.

“See here, Mrs Locke, we’ve been told that until your recent engagement Ronald Drew was your constant escort and that people were under the impression that you were to marry him. We’ve been told, too, that he was very much—ah—affected by your coming marriage to Mr Locke and that, in fact, when the news of his suicide came out the general impression was that he did it because of your marriage. Now there’s no use in your evading the issue. Was he in love with you?”

“He—he said so. Yes.”

“Did he ask you to marry him at any time?”

She couldn’t look away from him; she tried to and failed.

“Y-yes. Yes, he did.”

“And you refused?”

“Yes.”

“How did he take your refusal? I mean, did he insist or did he——”

“Mrs Locke will answer all your questions, Wait, after she has seen her lawyer. She has a right——”

“Answer me, please, Mrs Locke.”

“He—I—Jevan, what can I say?”

“Tell the truth, Mrs Locke. And I have a right to question her alone, Locke, if you want to leave.”

“You need not answer, Dorcas——”

“She must answer.” There was an ugly flash in the little man’s eyes. He spoke to the man nearest him without turning his head. “If he says any more, put him out…Now then, were you surprised when you heard, as the servants here tell me you did hear early this morning, that Drew had suicided?”

Dorcas’ hands were clutching themselves together in her white satin lap. “I was horrified.”

“But you thought he did it because of your marriage? Did you?”

“I—yes. Yes, I was afraid of it.”

“Why?”

“Because I—because he had threatened——”

“Oh, he’d threatened to commit suicide if you married Locke?”

“Y-yes. That is, I didn’t think he meant it.”

“And when you heard of his death you refused at first to go through with the wedding? Don’t lie to me, I’ve questioned your servants. They’ve told me of his visits here—yes, and of the pressure brought to bear upon you to bring about your wedding to Locke here——”

“That’s enough. Get out. All of you. You can’t——” Jevan was standing over Wait, his eyes blazing from his white face, his hands doubled into hard fists.

Wait didn’t move, although the two men with him moved up closer quickly. Wait said amicably: “All right, all right, Locke. Keep your shirt on. But tell your wife to answer my questions. We know too much for you to try to dodge them. Drew was murdered and somebody killed him.”

“My wife knows nothing at all about it. You have no right——”

“I have every right,” snapped Wait, his suave affability vanishing. “I have every right. Ronald Drew was murdered last night. About eight or a little after a woman was in his apartment. I want to know who the woman was. About nine-thirty a man was in his apartment I want to know who that man was. I’ve already inquired about Mrs Locke—the servants say she went to bed about eight. I’ve not inquired about you, Locke. What about it? What did you do last night and where were you?”

“I was at my club. Any number of men saw me. You can easily establish that.”

“What time did you leave?”

“I’m not sure. Between nine-thirty and ten, I think. I was with Willy Devany.”

“Where did you go?”

“Home, of course.”

“What time did you arrive there?”

“I don’t know exactly. Devany brought me in his car; we sat out in front and talked a little. He might know what time it was.”

“You mean young Willy Devany, of the Devany Packing Company?”

“Yes. He was my best man today.”

“And you were in his company from the time you left the club till you got home?”

“Certainly. What is this? Do you think I shot Drew?”

Something became fixed in Wait’s morose eyes. “Oh, so you knew he was shot?”

“Certainly. It was in the papers. But how do you know he was murdered? Why did the papers first say suicide and later murder? Are you sure it wasn’t suicide——”

“I’m sure,” said Wait and spoke to one of the men with him. “Take the name of Locke’s club and names of the men he claims saw him there.”

“Check them?”

“No. I’ll do it myself.”

“Okay.” A notebook was in the plain-clothes man’s hands and he moved to Jevan’s side and began to question in a lowered, husky voice, and to write.

Wait turned back to Dorcas. “Now then, Mrs Locke, when Drew talked to you last night did he say anything of his immediate plans?”

“No.”

“Did he make any kind of threat?”

“Threat——”

Jevan interrupted.

“Dorcas, this has gone far enough! Refuse to answer——”

“Did he threaten to do anything to stop the wedding? Had he,” said Wait in a matter-of-fact way, “any kind of hold over you?”

“Don’t answer, Dorcas.” Jevan was at her side again, bending close over her, making her meet his eyes. “Don’t answer.”

“I must answer.” She looked at the detective. “No! He made no threats! He had no hold whatever over me. There was nothing—nothing he could have done. He had wanted to marry me, yes. He urged me, even, to marry him. But that was all. There was nothing he could have used as a—a threat.”

Jevan dropped her hands and stood straight again and looked, too, at the detective. There was something triumphant in that look, as if he’d scored a victory. He said, almost smiling, except it was a queer, tight smile: “Well, there you are, Mr Detective. Satisfied now, are you?”

“No. Except that you’ve coached your wife. However …” He paused thoughtfully. Away off in the distance doors were opening and closing; there was a murmur and hum of motion and voices from the main part of the house. The guests were arriving, turning out in full numbers in order to show their support. Behave as if nothing at all had happened. It was like a motto. But tomorrow, that night even, Chicago would rock with it.

Jevan said suddenly: “The guests are arriving. If you could postpone your inquiry…”

Unexpectedly Wait seemed to agree. “Why not?” he said. “I’ll see you later.”

“We are going on a wedding trip,” said Jevan. “We leave immediately after the reception.”

“Cancel the trip,” said Wait simply and looked at his watch.

“Cancel—look here, Wait. What do you mean by that? Are we under arrest?”

“No.”

“Then you can’t prevent us leaving.”

“Oh, can’t I,” said Wait. “Try it and see.” He turned and walked to the door. Dorcas leaned forward, clutching the slippery arms of the chair. Was he actually going, leaving them? At the door he turned. “I’m giving you a break,” he said abruptly. “I could detain you for questioning until your wedding party was all over. That’d look nice in headlines, wouldn’t it! Bride and groom not present owing to being involved in a murder inquiry. Well, I’m not doing it. But I’ll be back. And don’t leave town. I can get an order to stop you if I have to. That’d look nice in headlines too. Well, I won’t do that either—but don’t try to leave. Miss Whipple, do you have a green suit?”

It was altogether unexpected and was exactly like a blow. Dorcas almost staggered with the impact of it. A green suit … the doorman … and Mamie had said they’d been all over the house, looking … searching for what? For a green suit? But the doorman … He’d had only a glimpse …

Jevan was speaking. He was saying agreeably, too smoothly perhaps, “Of course she might have a green suit. Or a blue or yellow one. Why not?”

If Wait heard Jevan there was no evidence of it, for he was looking at Dorcas. Quietly, almost as if he were thinking of something else, yet Dorcas, meeting his eyes helplessly, felt guilt in her own. In another moment he would ask her point-blank if she had been in Ronald’s apartment, or perhaps he knew already. Certainly he had questioned the servants about what she had done the previous night. Then he suspected her. Why? Definitely and specifically because he knew she had been with Ronald? Or merely in a general way because she was one of Ronald’s associates?

His eyes were extraordinarily discerning. She was assailed by an uneasy notion that he could read her thoughts. But he said finally, rather affably: “How about it, Mrs Locke?”

Probably, helplessly, she would have replied but the door into the hall flung open and Sophie entered hurriedly. Her handsome brown gown was unruffled, her small hat at exactly the smart angle, her sables beautiful and soft over her shoulders. Her eyes were very quick and Dorcas knew at once that Sophie realized exactly what was happening.

She said, however, calmly: “Oh, there you are, Dorcas. Guests are here. You must receive them——”

“Who are you?” said Wait neatly.

Her eyes flashed once but she did not resent the question or show surprise.

“You are the police,” she said. “I knew, of course, that you were here about poor Ronald’s suicide. I am Mrs Thomas Whipple. Won’t you let Mrs Locke go now? It’s her wedding——”

Sophie’s pleasant voice had never been more tactfully restrained yet charming. Wait, however, looked very bored. He said: “You live here?”

“Yes.”

“We were talking of Mrs Locke’s green suit. It has a long coat and a collar of reddish fur. A high collar. I’d like to see it, please.”

There was no way to warn Sophie. They could only listen and watch to see whether she showed recognition of the suit and offered to bring it to the detective, as naturally she would do.