The Hangman's Whip (13 page)

But for the chloroform, Search thought, they would have been inclined to believe that she had dreamed the whole thing. The chloroform, its faint persistent odor all over the house, was irrefutable.

“But why?” said Diana, looking at Search. “Why?”

The question was inevitable, and there was no answer.

“I don’t know. I only know that someone was there.”

“Well, nobody’s in the house now,” said Calvin, sighing exhaustedly. “And I for one am going back to bed.”

Howland stayed the rest of the night, sleeping in a guestroom with the door left open in case, he said, whoever had been in the house returned.

They didn’t call the sheriff. By the time Calvin and Howland had finished the search of the house it seemed useless.

“There’ll be time enough in the morning,” said Howland, yawning. “Perhaps they can find footprints or something. But I doubt it. And I still don’t see why anyone should come into the house like this and try to frighten Search.”

He didn’t say try to murder Search. Ludmilla said practically: “Well, we’d all better go back to bed.”

They did. Search made an excuse of the smell of chloroform still in her room and spent what was left of the night on the couch in Ludmilla’s small dressing room. It was humpy and creaked when she moved, but she felt safer there.

But no matter, she thought, what any of them thought or said; no matter what the search of the house had failed to discover, she was certain of two things. Someone had stood beside her bed, there in the darkness; someone had crept out of the room when he was convinced that she was awake; someone had run lightly, but certainly and quickly as if he knew the house, down the stairs. The can of chloroform and the handkerchief were proof of it.

That was the way Eve was murdered. Chloroform and then a thin cord around her white throat.

But there was no one whom she, Search, threatened. No one to whom her life was a danger.

Unless—perhaps there was literally no reason for the attack. A homicidal maniac—that was what they called it, didn’t they? It was not a nice thought. And, again, who?

Ludmilla in the next room turned out her light and called softly:

“Go to sleep.”

It had always been Ludmilla’s panacea for troubles. Go to sleep.

Morning dawned still chilly and cloudy. That was Friday, July 15.

Calvin telephoned to the sheriff shortly after breakfast to report the incident of the night, and Howland drove into the village and returned with the papers.

There was still no news of Richard.

They read the papers—reluctantly, shrinking from the pictures and the headlines, yet unable not to look. Calvin and Howland read every word and talked of Richard’s escape and the possibilities of his capture and once of what effect, if any, the affair would have upon Calvin’s budding political hopes. With Diana’s money safely invested behind him, her ambition to spur him on and his own indubitable talent for making friends and speeches he had, a year or so before (after a tentative committee appointment or two), shut up shop altogether as a lawyer and embarked fully upon a political career.

“Well,” said Howland, “if you need publicity to get your nomination you’ve certainly got it.”

“It’s the wrong kind of publicity,” said Calvin gloomily. “Hullo—here’s the sheriff’s car.”

That was about ten. The sheriff, looking enormously refreshed but worried, stumped up the steps to the porch.

“Well, now,” he said, “what’s all this about somebody in the house last night with chloroform?”

“We didn’t touch a thing,” said Howland. “The chloroform can is exactly as we found it.”

Diana led the way upstairs.

The sheriff frowned over the can of chloroform and put the folded handkerchief gingerly away in an envelope. Al, the thin, bald little aid, came with him and wrapped the can in paper before he went away with it.

The sheriff talked to Ludmilla then for a long time in the library, with the great sliding door closed, and after that and sundry mysterious telephone calls, which seemed to consist mainly of monosyllables on the part of the sheriff, he sent for Search again.

It was almost noon. The sheriff sat ponderously in a chair that was too small for him, watched her with shrewd eyes half hidden by his thick jutting eyebrows and questioned her.

“Tell me again the whole story. Of last night, I mean, and this chloroform business. Who was it?”

“I don’t know.” At his gesture she sat down gingerly on the edge of a chair. It was chilly in the house that day, so she wore a crimson cardigan over her white blouse, and it was so dark and shadowy that the sheriff had turned on the old-fashioned table lamp before him, with its bronze base and bead-fringed, mottled green glass shade. It gave an eery light, greenish yellow, so the sheriff’s heavy-featured face looked sallow.

“Don’t know,” said the sheriff, “or won’t tell?”

“I don’t know.”

“You say you heard footsteps running down the stairs?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Yes. It was distinct—”

“There was a light in the hall?”

“No. There was no light anywhere then. A moment later I turned on the light in my room.”

“But you say the fellow ran downstairs. In the dark?”

“Yes.”

“He’d have had to know the house well to do that.” He was watching her closely and she was aware of it.

“Yes, I know. I thought of that too.”

Almost casually he tossed his first small bomb.

“Did you look at the handkerchief?”

“N-no. It was a plain white handkerchief—a man’s.”

“It belonged to Dick Bohan. His initials are on it.”

“But—but it wasn’t Richard!” she cried sharply and hunted for reasons. “His things are in his room. Anybody could have taken it. It wasn’t Richard. I would have known. And he wouldn’t have tried to give me chloroform. Don’t you see how absurd that is!”

The sheriff lifted his shoulders.

There was a little silence. Then he said thoughtfully: “They tell me the doors weren’t locked.”

“That’s true, I suppose. We never lock the doors. No one does here at Kentigern.”

“No one did,” said the sheriff, correcting her. “It’ll be different now. Look here, Miss Search, can’t you give me any clue to whoever this fellow was?”

“I’ve told you everything, except that I”—she leaned forward, meeting his eyes—“I
know
it wasn’t Richard.”

“How do you know?”

“He wouldn’t have done that,” she repeated. “He wouldn’t have tried to murder—”

The sheriff said quickly: “Do you think it was an attempt to murder you? Well, that’s interesting. Why?”

“Because of the chloroform. That was the way Eve—”

He interrupted impatiently.

“No, no. I mean why would anybody murder you?”

“Oh.” She drew back. “I don’t know. There’s no reason. There’s nobody who—who hates me—like that. Nobody—”

Her voice drifted into silence. The sheriff picked up a pencil and tapped on the table with it, a monotonous, steady little tattoo.

“Nobody would murder you,” he said presently. “Perhaps that’s what Eve Bohan thought too. Well—look here, Miss Search; tell me the truth. You’re in love with Richard Bohan, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Yes. You want to help him, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t—” He rose and towered above her, looking very big and powerful and threatening, so she remembered suddenly that all the force of the law was behind him. “You didn’t make up this story, did you, Miss Search?”

“Make up—”

“Get some chloroform—scream; tell them this story of some intruder—all that in order to make me believe that someone was in the house last night—someone that was not Dick Bohan. That someone tried to murder you—not Dick Bohan. That someone—not Dick Bohan—killed Eve. Did you try to do that?”

She had felt skepticism in his questions; so that was why.

“No. Believe me. I’m telling you the truth. It wasn’t Richard last night. And it was someone else.”

“But you didn’t see him?”

“I couldn’t. It was dark.”

“He didn’t speak. You heard him run down the stairs. No one else saw him. There’s only that can of chloroform—and the handkerchief.”

“Isn’t that enough? Doesn’t that prove it?”

“No.” He sighed, sat down again slowly, tapped the pencil on the table, examined its eraser, frowned and said: “I told you I’d tell you the truth. All right, I will. Miss Ludmilla tells me that she told you about the—the attempts to poison her.”

“Yes. I didn’t believe it—I thought there was some horrible mistake, until the kitten—” She stopped, looking at him questioningly.

He nodded. “Yes. It was arsenic. And, so far as I can discover, it was in the food you gave the cat.”

“Cook said—”

“Cook said it came from Miss Ludmilla’s tray. That was her dinner tray from the previous night. That was Tuesday night, the night you arrived. Miss Abbott had not eaten any of the steak. I had a long talk with Miss Abbott. So far I’ve talked only to her about this—and necessarily to the cook and to Jonas.” He paused, thought for a moment and said slowly: “I guess the time’s come to question everybody in the house.”

“Then it’s true?”

He went on thoughtfully, as if he hadn’t heard her. “We checked back over the dates when these attacks happened. There were three times; the first time was, she thinks, during the second week in June. Here on the place at the time were Richard Bohan (who stayed at the cottage) and his wife, Diana and Calvin Peale and Miss Ludmilla. Nobody else, although Howland Stacy dropped in for a cocktail late in the afternoon; there was no other caller that day, and Howland stayed only an hour or two, played a set of tennis and drove back to Chicago that night. That night Miss Ludmilla had her first attack of arsenic poisoning. The second time was about a week later; the middle of June. Howland Stacy was not here at the time—at least he was not in the house. I’ve not questioned him about that date yet; according to Miss Ludmilla it was the sixteenth of June. The others were here—the same people: Diana Peale and Calvin, Richard and his wife. The servants (except for Jonas) were later dismissed and a new—the present set came. The others went back to Chicago and are being hunted out and questioned; I doubt if we’ll be able to sift any pertinent fact out of the inquiry. I have not been able to, so far, from the present servants. It is almost impossible for anyone to recall small matters, largely of routine, with much exactness. That is, what food was ordered, how it was prepared and served—things like that. … The third attack occurred a little over two weeks later, and Miss Ludmilla, rather against Diana’s advice, called a doctor from Chicago and, naturally, insisted upon seeing him alone. He consulted another doctor. You’ve seen the report, Miss Ludmilla tells me.”

“Yes.”

“It reached her about a week ago. She sent for you.”

“Yes. She wrote to me and then telephoned.”

He thought for a moment. “May I see the letter?”

“I left it in Chicago. But there was nothing in it about poison. She only asked me to come. She didn’t say why.”

“Then when did she tell you about the arsenic?”

“The night I arrived. Last Tuesday night. The night before Eve—was murdered.”

“Miss Search, you saw Dick Bohan that night—Tuesday night, the twelfth—for the first time in how long?”

Her heart seemed to tighten a little. She said evenly: “Three years.”

“Since his—”

“Since his marriage to Eve. Yes.”

There was a little pause. Then he said: “That was intentional?”

“Not exactly. That is—Richard wasn’t at home, except for a brief visit or two, until this summer.”

“You didn’t hear from him during that time?”

“No. He—he was married to Eve. There had never been any understanding between us.”

“Until you saw him again? Tuesday night?”

She said “Yes” wearily, aware of the futility of evasion.

He scowled at the pencil for a moment or two.

“We’ve been trying to get a line on her. Miss Ludmilla and Miss Diana gave me addresses—places they had lived, a few people who might know something of Eve Bohan. Too few,” the sheriff added rather grimly. “They seem to have been separated a large part of the time since their wedding—Dick Bohan and Eve. He has been”—he paused and said—“working. New York—Los Angeles—wherever he could get a job flying a plane. For the past year or so he’s been in New York. Presumably Eve lived her own life. He seems to have managed to give her enough money so she could go wherever she pleased—Miami, Havana, Los Angeles. So far as we can discover, she lived comfortably no matter what his circumstances were. I don’t think Miss Ludmilla would have exactly approved of her circle of friends; but so far as I can tell, from what the detectives in cities where she lived have unearthed, there’s nothing really shady. She kept up the appearance and, I think, the fact of respectability. And so far we can find nobody who is known to have had any special grudge against her. I think if she had been really involved with anyone or anything we would have known of it by now. She spent a lot of time with a cousin in Detroit who, when I talked to her at length over the telephone, could give me no information of any value.”

He sighed and put down the pencil which he’d been rolling in his thick fingers.

“So you see, so far, the more we inquire the more definitely the thing narrows itself to—Kentigern. The only motive for her murder concerns Dick Bohan. And you. She stood in your way.”

Repeated denials were futile. Search said: “But Ludmilla and the arsenic. That shows there is something else, something that has nothing to do with Richard and me.”

“Oh yes, the arsenic. What makes you think the same person murdered Eve and tried to kill Ludmilla Abbott?”

“It’s hard to believe there are two people—somewhere, close to us—who are both murderers. In intention at least.”

“Law of averages, huh? Well, I never heard of the law of averages really proving anything.” He eyed her enigmatically for a moment. “Proof, though—absolute factual proof, fingerprints and that kind of thing—is hard to get. We’ve had everything in the cottage fingerprinted and have found only Dick Bohan’s fingerprints and found them all over except—except on the two empty glasses on the table. There were no fingerprints at all on those.”