There is No Return (8 page)

I have a confused recollection of Judy Oliver burying her head against Jeff Wayne’s shoulder, of his arms tightening about her; of Dora Canby sitting there in a state of suspended animation, staring not at the dying man beside her but at that limp figure huddled on the floor at her feet; of Lila Atwood catching her husband’s sleeve and turning him away so he could not see his uncle; of Hogan Brewster for once in his life confronting something which he could not meet with flippancy; of Patrick Oliver holding onto the back of his chair and crying “Oh, God!” over and over in a thin whisper; of Professor Matthews, looking suddenly old and stricken, covering his face with an agued hand.

At my side Fannie Parrish, being completely without inhibitions, was indulging in a fit of hysterics. Ella had gone quite rigid.

Back of me Miss Maurine Smith was uttering a series of sharp bleating cries, not unlike a stuck sheep. The young mother was trying to tell the dyspeptic old gentleman that he must not look while he was assuring her that he had no intention of doing so, although he did not once remove his eyes from that crimson gap in Thomas Canby’s throat which widened as life went out of the body and the head fell back against the top of the chair.

Over by the door Chet Keith still stood with his hand on the light switch. I have never seen anything sharper than his blue eyes as he looked us all over.

“Don’t touch him!” he said sharply when Patrick Oliver took a tentative step toward the dead man.

“But oughtn’t we to do something?” demanded Lila Atwood, only the slightest tremor marring her lovely voice. “He – maybe he isn’t dead.”

Chet Keith’s blue eyes raked hers. “He’s dead all right,” he said. “No doubt of that.”

I glanced at that ashen face lying back against the headrest of the chair. No, there was nothing anybody could do for Thomas Canby.

“The authorities will want everything left exactly as it is,” Chet Keith went on. His voice grated, “After all, this is murder.”

“Murder!” whispered Sheila Kelly.

She had dragged herself to her feet. She stood there trembling.

Nobody went to her assistance. Everyone stared at her with unconcealed horror. She flung up her hand as if to ward off our hostile gaze or possibly to shut out the sight of that sagging form in the chair.

“I didn’t kill him,” she whispered. Her eyes travelled piteously around the circle. “I didn’t kill him,” she repeated in a lifeless voice and began to tear the handkerchief in her hands to pieces, as if she had to do something. It appeared to me that her gaze rested longest upon Professor Matthews, but he did not look at her. He was shivering. He could not seem to stop.

Fannie Parrish started up from her chair. “I’m going to my room!” she wailed.

Chet Keith shook his head. “Nobody can leave until the officers arrive.”

“I can’t, I won’t stay in this horrible place!” cried Fannie.

“I think so,” murmured Mr Chet Keith, standing with his back four-square against the door.

“I’m going to be sick!” shrieked Fannie, turning quite green.

“Nonsense!” I exclaimed crossly. “You can’t. There aren’t any facilities for your being sick in this room.”

Fannie gulped, but she went back to her seat, and Chet Keith gave me a grateful glance. Apparently, like myself, he knew enough feminine psychology to realize that Fannie Parrish was the last woman in the world to be messy in public, and when Miss Maurine Smith attempted to throw a faint in his arms he disposed of her very neatly upon one of the hard red sofas where she immediately came to, looking remarkably chagrined.

Somebody was pounding on the door. “What’s the trouble in here?” demanded a voice. “What’s happened?”

Chet Keith frowned as he slid the bolt back. I thought he wished he could postpone the interruption, but there was no help for it.

Captain Bill French was not a man who could be put off when he saw his duty and he was the manager of Mount Lebeau Inn. The fact that he was also a veteran of the war of ‘98 did not prevent his turning as green as Fannie when he saw that ghastly figure across the room.

“For God’s sake, what’s happened?” he cried again.

Chet Keith shrugged his shoulders. “I should think it is self-evident,” he said coolly. “One of your guests has been murdered.”

“Murdered!” quavered Captain French, and I realized that Miss Smith was right. The dashing widower of twenty years before had become an old man with a paunch and a toupee.

For the first time Dora Canby spoke. “It’s my scissors,” she said, looking like the etching of a woman which had blurred. “He was killed with half of my scissors.”

I had until that moment been too rattled to identify the object, the hilt of which still protruded from Thomas Canby’s throat, but it undoubtedly was half a pair of scissors. The handle was gold-washed and represented some sort of bird, a swan probably, only half of it was missing.

“It is Aunt Dora’s scissors,” whispered Judy Oliver. She stepped forward, but Chet Keith was too quick for her.

“Don’t touch it,” he said sharply. “I’ve warned you, nothing must be touched.”

Jeff Wayne glanced bitterly at Sheila Kelly’s bowed head.

“What’s the difference?” he demanded. “The case is open and shut. She” — into the words he put almost savage hatred — “she killed him. We all saw it.”

I frowned at him. “Are you able to see in the dark, Mr Wayne?” I inquired sharply.

“In the dark? No, of course not, but we all heard her. We all know she killed him.”

“I didn’t,” whispered Sheila Kelly.

Chet Keith looked at her. “You’re on the spot,” he said curtly. “If you’ll take my advice you’ll say nothing until the authorities arrive.”

She gave him a wondering glance as if she could not make him out, but she took his advice.

It was Allan Atwood’s nerves, characteristically enough, which first frazzled under the strain. “You’ve no right to keep us cooped up here with a murderess!” he cried. “Wait for the sheriff if you like. I’m getting out.”

“No,” said Chet Keith and then asked, “So you knew your uncle had sent for the sheriff?”

Allan Atwood turned very white. “You-you said the sheriff was coming,” he stammered.

Chet Keith shook his head. “I haven’t mentioned the sheriff.”

“Allan means,” interposed Lila Atwood quickly, “that we all knew Uncle Thomas had sent for the sheriff.”

Chet Keith eyed her steadily but she had a gaze as level as his own. “Did you know your uncle had summoned an officer?” he asked Judy Oliver suddenly.

She shook her head, and with a smile Lila Atwood amended her previous statement. “I should have said that any of us could have heard him telephoning. It was just before dinner, and we were all in Aunt Dora’s sitting room.”

“I see,” murmured Chet Keith.

Captain French abruptly realized that he was cutting no sort of figure in the proceedings. “Mr Keith is right,” he said. “You must all remain here until the authorities arrive.” He twisted the ends of his moustache nervously. “Though heaven knows, the thing is clear enough.”

Dora Canby roused herself from the apathy in which she seemed to have sunk. “He tried to put her away,” she said. “If Gloria had lived her father would have put her in an institution.” She stretched out her hands to Sheila Kelly in a gesture of passionate tenderness.

“He ruined your life, my darling, just as he ruined mine. You had to kill him, didn’t you? Mother knows you had to kill him.”

“Don’t! Oh, please don’t!” cried Sheila Kelly, in an agonized voice.

Judy Oliver sobbed once. “It’s too awful! I can’t bear it!”

She turned blindly and again would have buried her face upon Jeff Wayne’s shoulder, but he moved aside and glared at Sheila Kelly.

“What I want to know is,” he demanded in a smothered voice, “where is the other half of those scissors?”

Allan Atwood flung out his hands in a wild gesture. “I suppose she is saving it for the rest of us!” he cried. “She hated us all! As much as she hated him!”

Hogan Brewster smiled. “It was you, wasn’t it, Allan, who told Thomas Canby that his daughter put arsenic in his soup?”

“I didn’t!” cried Allan Atwood furiously. “I merely told him that I saw Gloria take some of the weed killer from the shelf in the gardener’s room.”

“Gloria only took the weed killer to kill a mouse in the attic. It was annoying her,” murmured Dora Canby. “You told me so, didn’t you, darling?” she asked Sheila Kelly.

The girl flung her a despairing glance. “Please, Mrs Canby,” she said brokenly.

The professor suddenly came to life. “It’s all your fault!” he cried, shaking his fist at the girl. “You couldn’t let well enough alone. Do you realize that we’ll both go to the electric chair for this night’s work?”

“I don’t get it,” whispered young Patrick Oliver.

The professor gave him a malevolent glance. “At that we may have company,” he said.

Allan Atwood laughed unpleasantly. “Take care, Pat, that you don’t get the other half of those scissors in your throat. If I remember rightly our cousin Gloria had it in for you too; something about Judy’s ear, I think.”

“Gloria did not intend to chip Judy’s ear with the can opener,” said Dora Canby with a shudder. “It was an accident, wasn’t it, darling?” she asked Sheila Kelly.

The girl quivered all over, though this time she did not protest, and Patrick Oliver flung her a bitter glance. “Sure it was an accident,” he said, “but if I hadn’t jogged her elbow she would have gouged Judy’s eye out.”

Dora Canby glanced at him reproachfully. “Gloria believed that Judy had stolen Jeff’s heart away from her.”

Jeff Wayne’s hands clenched. “Gloria was mistaken,” he said, staring steadily at Sheila Kelly. “Gloria is the only woman I ever loved or can love.”

Judy Oliver caught her breath as if he had struck her, but Dora Canby smiled at her and then at Jeff.

“I know, I know, my boy,” she said softly. “You belong to Gloria, doesn’t he, darling?” she asked Sheila Kelly.

The girl flung out her arms in a gesture of despair. “Make her stop!” she cried. “Can’t you make her stop?”

She addressed Chet Keith, but I found myself unable to keep still.

“You are labouring under a delusion, Mrs Canby,” I said. “Whatever else she may be, this girl is not the reincarnation of your daughter Gloria. You have been the victim of a cruel trick. The dead do not come back.”

“Precisely,” said Chet Keith.

“I think you are the newspaperman whom my husband threatened to kick off the mountain,” murmured Dora Canby. “Poor Thomas, he was always threatening to kick somebody out; first Patrick because he is always in debt, then Judy because she tried to steal Gloria’s lover, then Allan because he will not stop his wife from dragging us all into a scandal, and finally you, Mr Keith, isn’t it? But Thomas will never threaten anybody else. Gloria has revenged herself, haven’t you, darling?”

“Oh, God!” whispered Sheila Kelly.

I cannot explain why I was possessed to defend the girl, unless it was because she was so utterly alone.

“If she killed Thomas Canby she was merely acting under suggestion!” I exclaimed and pointed my finger dramatically at Professor Matthews. “Under his suggestion!”

To my horror the professor began to weep. “See what you’ve done!” he cried, again shaking his fist in Sheila Kelly’s face. “I tell you we’ll both go to the electric chair!”

He was a horrible, snivelling object, one that unmanned me, but Hogan Brewster seemed amused at the spectacle.

“That amounts practically to a confession,” he said.

“You think so?” drawled Chet Keith. “Why did they do it?”

“It’s apparent on the face of it,” said Allan Atwood quickly.

“They have Aunt Dora wound about their finger. She is capable of spending a fortune on them, but Uncle Thomas was going to send them packing, so they killed him.”

“And what good will a fortune do them in the electric chair?” demanded Chet Keith.

“Oh, but they’ll never send my Gloria to the chair,” murmured Dora Canby. “You can’t electrocute somebody who is already dead.”

“Anyway,” I put in quickly, “the girl was hypnotized. She was not responsible for her actions. We can all swear to that.”

Hogan Brewster gave Chet Keith a triumphant glance. “Turn a good lawyer loose with that defence and plenty of the Canby money and see how far the prosecuting attorney will get with a conviction,” he said.

The professor was snivelling again. “They’ll say I did it. They’ll say I put her up to it.”

“Of course you did,” snapped Chet Keith.

And then the sheriff arrived, accompanied by two deputies.

I was informed later that Sheriff Tom Latham was serving his third term, and when it came to locating stills in the mountains and breaking up a fight at a country dance he was probably a highly efficient weapon of the law, as were Butch Newby and Mart Butler, his assistants and only slightly less burly versions of the grizzled sheriff. I could picture the three of them wading lustily into a free-for-all and cracking heads and otherwise enforcing the peace in a rural community, but in the complicated and sinister tangle which awaited them at Mount Lebeau Inn on that stormy July night they were hopelessly inadequate without the saving grace of realizing as much.

It was Chet Keith who again assumed the initiative and gave Sheriff Latham in a curt and succinct manner an account of what had happened. The sheriff interrupted him only once and then to send one of his henchmen to telephone for the coroner. It appeared that the rain was assuming the proportions of a cloudburst, and the sheriff had some uneasiness about the bridge over the Carol River.

“All we need to make this disaster complete,” I muttered to Ella, “is to have that pontoon bridge wash out.”

Sheriff Latham gave me a severe glance from under his beetling brows. “We’ll have no whispering,” he said.

I tossed my head and Chet Keith grinned as he went on with his recital. It was his newspaper training, I suppose, which enabled him to present the facts in the fewest possible words without omitting any of the essential details.

“Anybody else anything to add?” inquired Sheriff Latham at the end, treating us all to one of his heavy scowls.