Authors: Mignon G. Eberhart

The Hangman's Whip (28 page)

BOOK: The Hangman's Whip

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Diana’s long face looked extraordinarily pale. She started to remove her gloves absently, light eyes on Richard. Then she glanced around the room, saw the lamp knocked over, saw Search. She looked into Search’s eyes, too, for a long moment. Then she turned back to Richard. “Very well. It—it’s about the money. Isn’t it?”

“Yes, Diana,” said Richard. “Isabel—”

She nodded. “I think I know. I’ve always been afraid of it. The lawyer told me when it happened that if Isabel had lived a moment longer and there was any way to prove it—” She stopped and took a long breath. “You’re going to take it all now, Richard. Where is Calvin? Is he here?”

Richard thrust Ludmilla’s letter and the green silk cord in his pocket and abruptly took Diana’s hands. He said: “I’m sorry, Diana. He—it was Calvin that killed her. You see—it’s your money, Diana, that you inherited from John. Isabel outlived John; there’s proof of it, and Calvin—and Eve— knew of that proof. The sheriff and I went to Avion; we got back to Kentigern just after Search had left. Ludmilla told us her story, and I saw then what it meant. I came here and found Calvin—” He stopped. “There’s no doubt of his guilt.”

“Stop, Richard! I—I guessed. I guessed when Eve said she’d gone to Avion, and then Eve was killed. Only Calvin would have done it. But I wasn’t sure until he wanted me to give him an alibi for the hour before dinner the night she was killed. It was a real alibi; he was really in his room then. But he—I knew the truth then; the way he asked me. When you know anybody very well—”

Her thin voice stopped.

Search was beginning to realize what had happened. She had heard and seen, but as if a fog actually intervened between her and reality. It parted then to give her a clear glimpse of Diana and Diana’s motives. Diana had never loved Richard; she had only intended to keep what she then possessed. If Richard actually inherited, and Diana could force Search aside and induce Richard to marry her, then she was still in possession. Still the lady of the manor. Still—

Richard said slowly: “The sheriff will be here in a few minutes. He’s following me. You’d better know this, Diana. The man that was murdered was Saul Gleason, and his name is on the hospital records—where Isabel and John were taken, I mean—as reporting the accident. Ludmilla had a gold case that was sent her by Gleason from Isabel. Isabel outlived John. So I inherit from Isabel. But I’m not going to keep it. Not all of it. Do you understand?”

There was a silence. Then Diana’s head lifted a little. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I’m going to keep what was Isabel’s, the money she brought with her when she married John. But the rest of it is yours. I don’t want it.”

“The rest—but that—
Why, then, I
—” She stopped.

Her tall thin figure seemed to straighten itself, to have life and competence again. There was another silence. Then she said: “Well, then. That’s settled. Very good of you, Richard, I’m sure.”

She glanced around the room again. And said: “Calvin—well, I must see to that, of course. A good alienist—yes, I’ll take him to an alienist at once.”

Search always remembered that and Diana’s cool, self-possessed look. She remembered, too, the curious little smile on Richard’s face.

And then Sheriff Donny arrived. Two policemen—Chicago policemen in blue uniforms—arrived with him. When they left Diana went too—dignified, self-possessed, talking of alienists and lawyers.

Search heard that. But she did not look. She stood at the desk with her back toward the ugly little procession.

Richard came to her when they had gone and the room was still again. He had a note in his hand and she recognized it. “What’s this!” he cried. “It’s in your handwriting. It was in Calvin’s pocket. For God’s sake, what—”

She told him briefly, in a kind of hushed voice that did not belong to her. She told him of Howland too. She told almost automatically (as if it had happened to another woman, not herself) all that had been said and done. “And then you came,” she said.

Richard listened, his face white. “Search,” he said huskily. “Search.” Suddenly he reached out and pulled her into his arms. “Oh, my darling,” he said unsteadily. “Come. Let’s get out of here. It’s a horrible place, Search.” But he held her tight in his arms.

His arms were warm and strong. It was dark now outside; the sky beyond the low window ledge was full of stars. Safe. She pushed her head closer into the curve of his shoulder and shut her eyes tight. He held her there in silence for a long time.

Gradually, like an awakening, she shook off the shock and horror of the thing that was past. Past. Finished. Richard was free.

She lifted her head. And Richard, staring out into the black sky, said slowly: “It was ambition first. And then fear—‘fear o’ hell’s the hangman’s whip.’ ” He looked down at her and, still holding her with one hand as if he didn’t dare let her go, he bent and took up her hat and bag from the table with the other hand.

“Come,” he said abruptly and led her to the door. They went away—along the corridor, down the elevator, not speaking, out a side door so they need not go through the foyer. A car—Diana’s coupé—was there, where he’d left it. They got in.

It was like the beginning of a journey.

It was the beginning of a journey; a long journey, for all of their lives, together.

Richard turned on the little dashlight. Her hand lay on the seat, and he took it in his own—her left hand. He looked at it for a long moment. Then he lifted it and gently kissed the third finger at its base, where a wedding ring is worn. He put it down.

“You do understand, don’t you, Search? I’m never going to let you go away from me again. This is forever.”

“Forever,” she said.

He turned then and kissed her. Presently he let her go and started the car.

“Okay, Search?”

She settled herself in the seat beside him. “Okay,” she said.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

cover design by Heidi North

978-1-4532-5728-9

This 2012 edition distributed by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media

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