Fire Will Freeze

12

When she returned to the sitting room Isobel found Dubois sitting where she’d left him, but there was a studied casualness in the way he sat that made Isobel believe he had been up and around examining the house. Under the circumstances he was far too self-assured, cross-country skier or not.

He had taken off his hat and Isobel saw that his hair was clipped very short and was black and curly.

He rubbed the stubble on his chin and smiled at Isobel. “You are welcome, Miss Seton.”

“I’m sorry there’s not much variety here, but I can’t cook.”

“Can’t you?” he said, still smiling, but his eyes were watchful.

She put the dishes on the floor beside him and said, “You remind me of someone.”

He waved a piece of bread gaily. “I am constantly reminding someone of someone. I fear I am a type. Perhaps that is why Mr. Crawford dislikes me.”

“Mr. Crawford doesn’t need an excuse to dislike anyone,” Isobel said. “He has a creative impulse for trouble.”

He continued to eat, hungrily, but delicately, picking the crumbs from his lap and tossing them into the fire. From one corner of the room a radiator began to clatter and bang. Dubois’ hand poised rigidly in mid-air for a moment, then went on with the crumb gathering.

It made Isobel nervous and she started to fidget. He stopped immediately and looked up at her.

“I see you have been under a strain,” he said with sympathy.

“Yes.”

“You are from the city?”

“New York.”

“You have come a long way, not in actual miles, but in other things. French Canada is no doubt strange to you?”

“If what’s happened to me is a sample,” Isobel said grimly, “French Canada is a very strange country.”

“Your experiences have been unusual?”

“Terrific is the word.”

“Oh?” He nodded wisely, waiting for her to continue.

“I get on a bus and the bus driver walks off into a blizzard. Exit permanent. I get out of the bus and am shot at. I go into a house and find an insane woman and a sinister nurse. Exit the nurse. Very permanent.”

“Ah yes, the body. Mr. Crawford took it into the other room?”

“The library,” Isobel said. She frowned suddenly, and thought, why the library? He knew I wanted to go in there. Is he trying to keep me out?

Dubois said, “You distrust Mr. Crawford?”

“I don’t feel one way or the other about him,” Isobel said. “I have no reason to trust any of these people. I have never seen them before, except a picture of Mr. Goodwin in a newspaper once.”

Picture in a newspaper. There was something queer about the phrase which gnawed at her mind. There was something about a picture in a newspaper...

Dubois was talking again and she turned her attention back to him.

“... any reason to suspect that the nurse was murdered? May it not have been an accident of some kind?”

“I don’t know. There were no marks on her. She apparently fell or was pushed over the second-story balcony.”

Dubois leaned forward. “But surely a fall in soft snow wouldn’t kill her?”

“The balcony’s very high. See how high the ceilings are in the house.”

“But even so...”

“And perhaps she had heart trouble,” Isobel said, “and died of shock as she fell.”

“That is possible. This balcony runs along the house?”

“Yes.”

“Both sides?”

“Yes.”

“Which side did she fall from?”

Isobel pointed. “Outside the library. It happened during the night. Paula Lashley heard her scream.”

“I must become acquainted with these people,” Dubois said. “Who was occupying the room directly above the library?”

“She was, Floraine herself.”

“And the next room?”

“Miss Rudd.”

“I am full of questions,” he said, smiling. “I am interested in mysteries. So profound a one as this makes me forget I am a guest here and have no right to ask questions.”

“You’re not my guest,” Isobel said dryly. “Ask away.”

“It seems odd,” he said, “that Miss Rudd who lived amicably alone here with her nurse should decide to kill her. You agree?”

“Yes.”

“I hope I may see Miss Rudd. One can estimate many things about a person from his or her appearance. Character is written on the face. I find Mr. Crawford, despite his unfortunate manners, an eminently honest man who is still emotionally immature. He could be persuaded, I fancy, to play cops and robbers. He is still a boy.”

“Well, he has some very boyish habits,” Isobel said wryly. “And I don’t believe you can read character from faces. You don’t look like a cross-country skier, for instance.”

“Perhaps you’ve never met any.”

“I’ve met athletes. They don’t look or talk like you.”

He laughed. “Perhaps I looked and talked like this before I became an athlete. Your filing system is too simple, Miss Seton. You have no file marked ‘miscellaneous.’ ”

“I’ll whip one up,” Isobel said, “and you may be the first one to get into it.”

“Thank you. Who has been taking charge of the group since you arrived?”

“Taking charge?”

“Yes. There is always someone within a group who decides what the others will do or eat or wear or talk about.”

“Not in this group. I’ve tried. I wasn’t a success, thanks to Mr. Crawford’s heckling and the natural laziness and selfishness of most of the others. The difficulty is that none of them has any sense of responsibility. A woman is killed — but it’s nobody important. A bus driver disappears, we are shot at — but the driver doesn’t matter to them personally and no one was hurt from the shooting. You see?”

“I see.”

“I didn’t mean to tell you all this, but since you are here you might as well know what you’re in for.”

“I shall not be here long.”

“That’s what we thought,” Isobel said. “But here we are. Would you like some more tea?”

“Yes, thank you,” Dubois said.

Isobel found Crawford in the kitchen alone. He was standing on a chair peering into the top cupboards, making groaning noises.

“What are you looking for?” Isobel said crossly. “Or shall I guess?”

“You guess,” Crawford said.

“Miss Rudd?”

“Nope.”

“Weevil killer?”

“Getting close.”

“Crawford Special?”

“You have it,” Crawford said. “I am looking for some of that nice fiery liquid that makes Crawford feel he is a king among men.”

“I thought Crawford always felt that way,” Isobel said. “It’s Crawford’s acquaintances that have to be convinced. Move over. I want the teapot.”

Crawford stepped down from the chair and watched her pour out the tea.

“Is that for our skiing champ Dubois?”

“Yes.”

“Nice-looking fellow, Dubois, but he hasn’t my rugged charm. Of course that’s only my opinion.”

“You said it,” Isobel replied coldly. She started to walk away, then turned around again and faced him, frowning. “Mr. Crawford, I want to talk seriously to you.”

Crawford leered at her. “Ha, I knew you’d come around to my way of thinking about me.”

“Did you take away the bus driver’s coat from the closet?”

“Yup.”

“What for?”

“I wanted to examine it in the privacy of my bedroom.”

“I don’t believe it. As far as I can see you’re trying to prevent anyone from finding out anything about anything.”

“Fine, flowery English,” Crawford said. “And don’t breathe on the champ’s tea, Isobel, you’ll freeze it.”

“You are deliberately, willfully, hindering investigation to protect yourself. You don’t want me to find out anything about you...”

“You go carp at the champ, Isobel. I’m busy.”

“Stop calling him the champ! He’s a very nice, polite, sympathetic and intelligent man...”

“You’ll get over this infatuation, Isobel, and then you’ll come back to me. He is dross and chaff, flotsam and jetsam, a homewrecker...”

The door slammed. Crawford gazed at it, grinning. Then he started to whistle and climbed back on the chair and resumed his search for another bottle of brandy. He didn’t find any brandy but he found a pint of Seagram’s rye. With the bottle in his pocket he went upstairs very quietly, and into Isobel’s room. He caught sight of his face in the mirror above the fireplace. It was stiff and triumphant, and he smiled at himself. He was in a tight spot and it excited him, made him reckless.

He moved quickly around the room, with the smile still plastered on his face and the blood racing through his veins.

In three minutes he had found what he wanted, and five minutes after that it was destroyed.

He stood watching the flames leap up the chimney and his triumph bubbled up in his throat. It wasn’t the triumph of winning because he hadn’t won, and there was a good chance that he wouldn’t win — but he liked the challenge, he liked to out-talk and out-think other people, he liked to fight, even when the breaks were all against him as they were now. From the time he had tried to start the bus and failed, his luck had been out.

But he always bounced back somehow. Even Floraine’s death, after the first shock was over, had exhilarated him in some strange perverse way — he knew now he had a mortal enemy in this house, someone who knew him and what he was and someone he didn’t know.

A mortal enemy. Someone who wore a mask like himself, but not so subtly as he wore his. You had to be subtle to carry things off as he did, telling the truth in such a way that you weren’t believed. He was good at that. He had fooled Isobel Seton.

Or have I? he thought in a moment of self-doubt. Have I fooled her? Or has she fooled me? I’d better watch my step.

It would be funny if it were Isobel. Funny and damned exciting and dangerous.

He went back into the hall and stood for a minute, listening. The others were all downstairs. He could search their rooms now if he wanted to, but he knew it wouldn’t be any use. He was up against someone too clever to leave behind any evidence that would crack the mask.

I’ll have to think, think, he said silently, but there was this queer excitement in his head that prevented him from thinking, and he had had too much brandy.

I’ll go down and tell them all that I’ve moved the body, he thought, I’ll get them circulating around again and watch. Perhaps I’ll get them looking for Frances and give them something to do. It will be safer for me not to have them all together.

At the thought of Miss Rudd he frowned suddenly and some of the excitement left him. He had been afraid of her. She had been after him with that chair... yes, she’d better be found. And he didn’t want to be the one to find her.

Upon reaching the dining room he discovered that the rest of the group shared his feeling very strongly.

“I think it would be far, far better,” said Mrs. Vista, “if we all remain in one room and leave Miss Rudd the rest of the house. Don’t you think so, Anthony?”

Mr. Goodwin thought so, yes.

Mr. Hunter coughed gently and said, “I shouldn’t mind looking for Miss Rudd, but I shouldn’t like to find her.”

“Oh, Poppa,” Joyce said petulantly. “You’re always trying to spoil things for me. I think Mr. Crawford is perfectly right. But if we’re going to look for her we shouldn’t go alone, but in pairs.” She looked across at Chad Ross and gave him a dazzling smile. “What do you think, Mr. Ross?”

Chad Ross, receiving a long cold stare from Paula which followed the dazzling smile, said, “No. I mean yes.”

Paula raised her brows. “Just what do you mean?”

Joyce smiled sweetly at her. “He means he’s agreeing with me.”

“Don’t fight over him, ladies,” Crawford said dryly. “I don’t think he can handle both of you.”

Chad looked at him. “You can, I bet.”

“I’d die trying.”

“Are you being coarse?” Mrs. Vista said, gazing at him sternly. “I don’t approve of coarseness, especially in the dining room, in front of minors. Anthony’s poems are sometimes brutally realistic, but never, never coarse, are they, Anthony?”

Mr. Goodwin said no, never.

“Who cares about his poems?” Maudie said irritably.

Mrs. Vista and Mr. Goodwin exchanged sad and knowing glances.

“A philistine,” said Mrs. Vista.

“Quite,” said Mr. Goodwin.

“Hoi polloi.”

“Definitely.”

“An ignoramus.”

“The very word.”

“Are you talking about me?” Maudie demanded. “You triple-chinned, fat-headed old drizzle-puss?”

“Now, Maudie,” Herbert said. “Now, angel.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Crawford said. “I thought we were talking about Miss Rudd.”

“You frog-faced, bat-eyed stinkaroo,” said Maudie.

“The instant I laid eyes on that woman,” Mrs. Vista said regally, “I knew her for what she was. She is coarse.”

“Now, now Maudie,” Herbert said. “Remember your heart. Remember your blood pressure.”

“Remember Miss Rudd?” Crawford said.

“Remember Pearl Harbor,” Gracie said brightly. “I think this is a cute game.”

“Shut up!” Crawford roared. “Everybody shut up except me!”

Crawford’s voice being what it was, everybody shut up more from shock than a willingness to oblige.

Crawford continued, more quietly, “Personally I don’t care whether Miss Rudd slits all your throats. The only throat I’m anxious to protect is my own because the Crawford tenor is famous in bathrooms from coast-to-coast. So if nobody else wants to find her, I do and I will. And when I find her I’ll give her my gun to play with, run like hell into my room, lock the door and let her shoot up the works. How do you like that for a cute game?”

There was a silence. Then Mrs. Vista said thoughtfully, It sounds rather — strenuous. I think perhaps, with certain exceptions, we should all help Mr. Crawford to look for Miss Rudd. One of the exceptions will, naturally, be myself. I no longer possess the necessary élan for such pursuits, to say nothing of the necessary joie de vivre and feu de joie.”

Mr. Goodwin blinked and said he too lacked these three necessary qualities; but after being hauled to his feet by Crawford he admitted he might work them up. Since Mr. Goodwin’s case was settled, he wandered out into the hall and stared helplessly up and down. Confronted by space free of Miss Rudd, he took heart and ventured to open a door which looked promising. It happened to be the library door — Mr. Goodwin was not fortunate in these matters — and he closed it again very quickly. Floraine was not a sight calculated to cheer the heart, and Mr. Goodwin retreated to the dining room looking bilious.

“Back again?” Crawford said grimly.

“My dear Anthony!” Mrs. Vista exclaimed. “Your face is positively mildewed. Really, we cannot take chances with your health. Poets are so delicate. You must remain here with me.”

“I want to go with Chad,” Joyce said.

“You shall go with me,” Mr. Hunter said.

“No, Poppa, you’re so dull.”

“I have never been considered dull.”

“People were just too polite to say so, Poppa.”

“Shut up!” Crawford roared again. “And get out! All of you! Get — out — of — my — sight! scram!”

There was a general movement towards the hall. In less than a minute Mrs. Vista found herself alone with Maudie.

Mrs. Vista sniffed audibly and turned her eyes to the ceiling.

Maudie drew in her breath.

“You addle-pated, bulbous-nosed old bat.”

“Coarse,” Mrs. Vista said sadly, with her eyes turned upwards. “A very coarse little bitch.”