Midnight Harvest (63 page)

This sympathy almost unnerved her. “How do you want to manage this?” she demanded in her most imposing manner.

“We’ve got to make sure this place is safe, and then we’ll radio in for help,” said the first policeman. “I can’t let you go upstairs, not yet. In case the criminal’s still here.”

“He left,” said Rowena, hugging her elbows with her bloody hands.

“He might have come back. He’s been hurt Unless you’re cut up.” The second policeman came up to her.

“Just this, on my face,” she said brusquely. “I think the man has buckshot in him, and a crease in his shoulder.”

“Your doing?” the second officer asked.

“No one else was here,” she said, and was shocked at how shaken she sounded.

“You let us do our job, ma’am,” said the first officer. “You go sit down, try to calm yourself. You have anyone who can come help you?” He had one foot on the stairs, but hesitated, his hand on his revolver.

“I called a friend. He should be here shortly.” She could hardly admit to herself how much she wanted to see Saint-Germain.

“Okay,” said the officer, and began to climb, taking care not to step in the splotches of blood. “You, Snyder, you stay down here. Just in case.”

“Okay, Baxter,” said Snyder, taking up a stance at the foot of the stairs.

“I tell you, he’s gone,” Rowena said, increasingly shaky and tired.

“We got to make sure, ma’am. Then we’ll get back-up over here, and someone will take your statement.” Snyder looked around. “Nice house.”

“You’re not seeing it at its best,” she said as cuttingly as she could.

“I can tell,” said Snyder, keeping his attention on the stairs. “The guy must be hurt. He sure is bleeding, since you say you aren’t.”

“I do hope so; I hope he bleeds until he’s dry,” said Rowena in hushed fury, and clasped her hands together to prevent them shaking. Strange, she thought in a remote part of her mind, my hands weren’t shaking earlier; you’d think, with what was going on, I would have been nervous then, not now.

A bell sounded two-thirty; Snyder cleared his throat. “Saint Anselm’s.”

“Probably.” Rowena sighed. Her face was starting to hurt in that stubborn, throbbing way that meant deep bruising, and she had a headache.

The sound of the knocker made Rowena jump. She hoped she had not yelped; she glanced at Snyder. “I think it’s my friend,” she said.

“I’ll open the door,” said Snyder, and called up to his partner. “Hey, Baxter. Someone’s here. What do you want me to do?”

“Answer the door,” came Baxter’s reply. He sounded depleted, and from the echo, he was in the bathroom. As if in confirmation, the toilet flushed.

Snyder went cautiously to the door, drew his revolver, and eased the door open, ready to shoot. “Who are you?”

“Ferenc Ragoczy; Miss Saxon called me from the telephone booth at California and Hyde. I came over as quickly as I could,” said the newcomer, keeping his manner cool and his voice level. “Inspector John Smith can identify me, if you require this.” He remained on the porch, letting the policeman make up his mind.

Rowena ended it for him: she rushed out of the living room and threw open the front door. “Thank goodness you’re here!” she clamored, flinging herself into his arms and letting herself cry; her sobs were deep, wrenched from the heart, and much as she felt abashed, she realized that comfort was more important than decorum. “Let him in!” She hung on to him, relieved he had arrived and distressed by the ferocity of her need for him.

“You can come in,” said Snyder, moving aside to admit him.

Saint-Germain supported Rowena with his arm and got her back inside, taking her into her studio and sinking her down onto her rolled-arm chair. “Don’t give yourself trouble, Rowena. You’re safe now. Do you need a wrap for your shoulders? Would you like to change clothes?”

“No,” she said, taking hold of his hands. “Just stay close, will you?”

“If that’s what you want,” he promised, and sat on the arm of her chair. “Are you cold?”

“Yes; inside, not outside,” she said.

“Let me pour you a brandy,” he offered.

“Sorry, sir,” said Snyder. “No brandy. You don’t want her forgetting anything. She hasn’t made a statement to an investigating officer yet.”

“I don’t think a little brandy will blot the night out of her memory, much as she might wish it would,” said Saint-Germain. “It will steady her, and that will help her to give her statement. Or don’t you want her to relax?” He opened the cabinet where she kept her liquor, and brought out the brandy and a snifter.

Snyder was troubled. “I don’t know. You know how it looks, a woman drinking. They won’t put much stock in what she says.”

Baxter appeared on the stairs; he was pale and dismayed. “Oh, let her have a drink. And get me one, too.”

“You’re on duty,” said Snyder.

“You go upstairs and tell me that afterward,” said Baxter, and sat down heavily on a bench under the front window, fanning his brow with his hand. “God, it’s awful up there. You can’t imagine.”

Snyder watched while Saint-Germain prepared two snifters of brandy and handed the first to Rowena, then gave the other to Baxter. “You might as well make the most of this. The other policemen will be here soon.”

“And welcome,” said Baxter, and drank down half the brandy in his snifter. “That room is a shambles—literally.”

“What happened up there?” Snyder asked. He glanced up the stairs again. “How bad is it? Why can’t I check it out?”

“Because it has to be gone over by the inspectors, and I have to make sure the scene isn’t contaminated. I can tell you: someone tried to kill Miss Saxon, no doubt about it. It’s real plain.” He blew out a lungful of air as if he had run up a steep hill. “She was cool-headed enough to stop him, though Jesus knows how. That bed is ruined, and so is the rug. And there’s blood all over the place. They’ll need the rug and bed, and photos, in case there’s a trial, to show how the room looked, and match the blood type of the man who attacked you with what’s on the bedspread. You’ll have to do something about the walls; not paint, but paint and then paper. You’ll need a strong cleaner to get rid of the smell.” Baxter took another drink and finished his brandy. Setting the snifter aside, he shook his head. “I don’t want to upchuck again.”

“If you think you’re going to,” said Rowena, “the kitchen is that way. Just try not to make a mess. Things are bad enough already. My housekeeper will be here at ten. She has a dentist appointment at eight.” She had a second sip of brandy, and was glad of the fiery track it drew down her throat to her stomach.

“Did you know the man?” asked Snyder.

“No. And to anticipate your next question, I didn’t see his face—he was wearing a skier’s mask. He seemed to know what he was about, as if he’d done it before—that much was obvious. And the lights were off, so I can’t tell you what color his eyes are, or his hair, or anything else about him beyond that he is tall and slim, except that I shot him.” Her voice rose sharply, and she made herself stop.

Saint-Germain put his hand on her shoulder. “Do you want to say this now? You’ll only have to say it again when the other police arrive.”

“I don’t know,” Rowena began only to be interrupted.

“We got to get the story as soon as possible,” said Baxter. “Sorry, ma’am. You’ve had one hell of a night, but—” He rose from the bench. “We got to start following that blood, just in case the guy’s fallen on the street somewhere around here.”

“You’re assuming he was alone,” said Saint-Germain. “He might have had an accomplice, or perhaps a driver.”

“Then we’ll find out where the blood stops, and maybe someone saw something,” said Baxter. “A man on the run with buckshot in him is hard to miss.”

“At two in the morning,” said Rowena sardonically. “Who’d tell the police about that?”

Snyder shrugged. “We won’t know until we go looking; we could turn up something useful. We have before. We’ll be checking out local residents tomorrow, in case anyone was up and looking out the window. It happens,” he insisted.

“We got to do everything.” Baxter looked over at Rowena. “And we will. But take it from me—I wouldn’t go up into that room again, Miss Saxon. Have your housekeeper clean it, down to the wood, and then hire someone to paint and paper it for you.”

“I’ve already seen the room,” Rowena pointed out as she put the snifter down more emphatically than she had intended. The loud clatter of the glass demanded the attention of everyone in the two rooms.

“But not the way it’s gonna be,” said Baxter. “You think it’s bad now, it’ll be worse in the morning. Crime scenes are messy.”

“How am I supposed to live in my house?” Rowena demanded, almost knocking over her brandy snifter.

“You might want to find a hotel,” said Snyder. “You must have friends you can stay with. I think that would be best.”

“There’s a man out there who wants to kill me,” said Rowena, her voice soft with rage. “What hotel would want me? And wouldn’t I be a welcome guest, with a killer after me?”

Snyder had begun his protest when there was a sharp knock on the door, and a voice announced, “Inspector Porter. We got four cops out here needing to come in.”

Baxter lumbered to the door. “Just a sec, Inspector. Tell your men to be careful coming in. There’s a blood trail we don’t want to mess up.”

From outside Porter relayed this message: “Open up.”

Baxter pulled the door wide and pointed down at the blood. “See what I’m talking about?”

“Gad,” said Porter, taking stock of the situation. “Some kind of attempted murder or rape, is that the case?”

Baxter made a series of signs intended to get Porter to mitigate his language. “Miss Saxon is right here, sir, and I don’t know as you want to—”

But Rowena had risen and went toward the newly arrived police. “I don’t know about the rape,” she said, “but I wouldn’t put it past him.” She held out her hand. “You’re Inspector Porter?”

“Abel Porter, at your service,” he said, taking her hand even as he stared at her bloody peignoir. He was nearing forty and doing it with as much panache as he could manage; he was well-dressed for a cop, and his manner had a hint of flamboyance. “Has either of these men taken your statement?”

“Not officially, no,” said Rowena, beginning to shake again.

“Come, Miss Saxon. Sit down. I’ll take your statement while my men do their work. I’m sure you’d like us out of here as soon as possible.” He took her by the elbow and guided her back into her studio, where he found himself staring at Ferenc Ragoczy. “And who might you be?”

Saint-Germain was tempted to give a flip answer, but instead held out his hand. “Ferenc Ragoczy. Miss Saxon called me and asked me to lend her my support, which I did.”

“Um,” said Porter. “All right. Perhaps you should sit down, Miss Saxon.” He released his hold on her. “If you want to—”

She went back to her favorite chair and picked up her snifter. “It’s been a difficult evening, Inspector Porter.”

“No doubt it has.” He was doing his best to be soothing, which only irked Rowena.

“A man got into my house tonight, with a pistol and, it would seem, the intention of murdering me. Don’t talk to me as if you think I’m hysterical. Under the circumstances, I am a model of self-possession.” She drank a little more brandy.

Before Porter could speak, Baxter tugged at his sleeve. “You should go upstairs, Inspector. Have a look in the bedroom before the other johnnies get there.”

Porter looked mildly surprised, but after a moment, did as Baxter asked, saying, “I’ll be back directly, Miss Saxon. Don’t have too much of that brandy.”

“No, I won’t,” she promised, and turned her gaze on Saint-Germain. “This is a madhouse,”

“It is,” Saint-Germain said, “and you know, I’ve been thinking: perhaps you’d be willing to come to my house for a day or two, while the police go about their business here. You’ll get no quiet here, you know. You could pack a bag, and no one would have to know where you are unless you chose to tell him.”

She drank another bit of brandy. “I don’t want to go into the room,” she said in a small voice. “I think Baxter may be right about that.”

“Then you need not,” he said. “Tell me what you need and where I may find them, and I’ll attend to it for you.” He saw that Snyder was about to protest, so he added hurriedly, “Not just now, but in an hour or so.”

“It would suit me, I guess,” she said, wanting to be rid of all the demands being made on her.

“Then, when Inspector Porter returns, I will broach the matter with him,” said Saint-Germain, watching two uniformed policemen beginning to measure and mark the blood-trail, working from the stairs to the main floor, using chalk and a ruler to mark the locations of all the dribbles and spatters they could see.

“They’re going to need some time to get this done,” said Baxter. “We probably won’t be out of here until after dawn.”

Saint-Germain could see how distressing this was to Rowena. “You come with me tonight, Miss Saxon. You’ll be welcome for as long as you’d like. My houseman will make up the guest room for you, and you can rest all day, if you like.”

Baxter joined in. “He’s right Cops can make a real rat’s nest. Get away for a couple of days, until you can put this place to rights again.”

“I’ll consider it,” said Rowena, determined not to capitulate too quickly or too readily.

“You do that,” said Baxter. “It’ll buck you up to get away from here. You won’t be reminded all the time of what has happened. And you can be protected. If we need anything from you, we can come to you.”

“I said I’ll consider it,” Rowena said peremptorily.

Saint-Germain dropped down on his knee next to her chair. “As soon as you talk with the inspector, you can decide what you want to do,” he told her. “In the meantime, finish your brandy. I’ll get you more if you want it.”

“Oh, I want it,” she said. “But I’d better not have it. I’m so jittery that I’ll probably fall asleep in a minute as soon as all the pressure is off me.”

“Very good,” said Saint-Germain, and rose to his feet again.

Inspector Porter returned from the upper level much chastened. “That was … pretty bad.”

“It’s probably worse with the lights on,” said Rowena, not trusting herself to laugh at her intended jest.