Fire Will Freeze

16

The sound of the shot reached the veranda like the snapping of a thin thread.

Chad said, “We’ll go inside now. No sense in waiting...”

“What was that noise?” Mrs. Vista said.

“How should I know?” Chad said. “Come inside.”

Paula looked at him levelly. “You know what it was. It was a...”

“Dry up,” he said.

“It was what?” Mrs. Vista said irritably. “Speak up, girl.”

“It was a shot,” Paula said.

Mrs. Vista blinked. “A shot? A gun, you mean?”

“Probably some farmer shooting rabbits,” Chad said. “Sound travels quite a distance in this air. Nothing to get excited about. Let’s go inside.”

Mrs. Vista gave him a glance from her shrewd little eyes, but Chad’s face remained expressionless. Perhaps it was a farmer, she thought, and even if it were not it was far, far better to believe it was. She took Mr. Goodwin’s arm, and leaning on it heavily she followed the Thropples and Mr. Hunter back into the house.

“Go in, too, Paula,” Chad said flatly.

“Are you coming?”

“Later.”

“Why not now?” She nodded her head in the direction of Joyce who stood at the far end of the veranda, her eyes still fixed on the horizon. “Because of her?”

“No,” Chad said. “I thought you and Miss Morning could go up and attend to Isobel.”

Paula hesitated and her face looked sulky and defiant.

“I didn’t like the way she looked,” Chad added.

“You’re just getting rid of me.”

“That’s what you want, isn’t it? Be reasonable just this once. Let your right hand know what your left is doing.”

A slow flush spread over her face. Then, without any warning, she raised her hand and dealt him a stinging blow on the cheek.

“That’s what my right hand is doing,” she said in a high tearful voice.

“All right,” Chad said quietly. “Now how about your left? You got that figured out, too?”

She raised her left hand and then dropped it wearily and walked into the house. Her face was pale and stiff. I’ve hit him. I’ve hit someone. I haven’t any control. I’m jealous, jealous — I love him...

She began to cry and whisper through her sobs. “I love him. I love him. I’m jealous of him and I love him.”

“Sure you do,” Gracie said from the staircase. “And so what. Are you coming?”

Sniffling and wiping her eyes, Paula followed Gracie slowly up the steps. When the door closed behind Paula, Chad walked quickly over to Joyce.

“Can you still see them?”

“One of them,” Joyce said. “Crawford had the gun, so I guess what I see is Crawford, or Rudd.”

Chad scanned the horizon but could see nothing. “You have good eyesight, haven’t you?”

“Of course,” she replied, without turning. “Inside and out. I think Rudd is crazy. He acts like a maniac.”

“What if he’s killed Dubois?”

Joyce turned then and gave him a half-pitying smile. “That wouldn’t make any difference to us. You don’t suppose Mr. Dubois intended to send help to us, do you? You are very naïve.”

“What in hell are you talking about?”

“Naïveté seems to be as congenital as color blindness. I really believe I was sophisticated at two. I don’t suppose Dubois is even his real name.”

“Go on,” Chad said grimly.

“As soon as I saw him,” Joyce said in a dreamy and exasperating voice, “I recognized the pimples at the back of his neck. And of course, even aside from that, pure logic indicated that he would have to be the bus driver.”

“I suppose you were as logical at two as you were sophisticated.”

“Naturally,” Joyce said modestly. “I mean, Dubois’ arrival was coincidental. I don’t suppose many skiers do get lost, and it seemed far too peculiar that we should lose a bus driver and find a lost skier. You understand?”

“You make it very clear. All except one point: why didn’t you tell us?”

“Why should I? I knew everyone would get all emotional and obscure the issue. And the issue was, if Dubois and Crawford were a pair of crooks and murderers, it would be better to have them out of the house. Simple logic, again.”

“Yes,” Chad said weakly.

“Because, of course, we were not actually uncomfortable here except for the presence of a murderer. Now that Rudd is gone we shall calmly await rescue.”

“And you knew about Dubois right from the start?”

“Not actually right at the start. But certainly when he faked being sick at the table. And then it was Crawford-Rudd who hurried to take him out.”

“Why?” Chad said. “Why fake it in the first place?”

“That’s one point I don’t quite see,” Joyce said, frowning. “I think it had something to do with Miss Seton. We’ll have to ask her.”

But Miss Seton was in no condition to answer questions. She slept on, oblivious to the cold wet towels on her face and the urgent commands of Gracie to wake up.

“Maybe she’s dying,” Gracie said. “Maybe they poisoned her.”

“Hush up,” Paula said. “She’s been doped, I think. We’ll have to walk her.”

“Walk her?”

“Walk her. Make her walk up and down the room to wear off the drug.” Paula leaned over the bed and put her arm under one of Isobel’s shoulders and raised her to a sitting position. “Gracie, take her on the other side. Now pull her up on her feet.”

“I don’t think this is such a good idea,” Gracie said, and after a time Paula was forced to agree. Isobel sagged at every joint and though she looked slender she was tall and weighed more than her appearance suggested. They let her fall back on the bed.

“One of her eyelids moved,” Gracie said. “Maybe if we flung her around a little more she’d wake up.”

“Bring more wet towels,” Paula said. She began to move Isobel’s arms up and down, and after ten minutes of this and more cold towels Isobel’s eyelids began to flicker noticeably.

“That’s the girl!” Gracie shouted encouragingly. “That’s right! Wake up!”

Isobel winced and put her hand slowly to her head. “My God,” she whispered. “Who — is — doing — that — shouting?”

Then she opened her eyes and saw Gracie and remembered everything with a rush.

“Where is he?” she said. “You didn’t — you didn’t let him go?”

“Well, we sort of had to,” Gracie explained. “He just sort of left.”

Isobel tried to struggle out of the bed, but there was a curious heaviness in her legs and arms and she had to lie back again, exhausted.

“He wasn’t Dubois,” she whispered urgently. “He wasn’t a skier. He was Jeanneret. The picture in the paper — he was Jeanneret.”

“Well, my goodness,” Gracie said. “What of it? You don’t think my name is Morning, do you? Matter of fact it’s Murphy.”

“Keep quiet,” Paula told her crisply. She looked down at Isobel. “You’d better not try to talk. It won’t do any good. They’re both gone, Dubois and Rudd.”

“Rudd?” Isobel said. “Rudd?”

“Crawford.”

Isobel closed her eyes again.

I am tired, tired, she thought. I mustn’t think now. I will not think about him. I will not think how even talking to him was exciting — no, don’t think. Don’t think.

She moved her head and a slow ache spread through her whole body.

He lived in another world, she thought. He carried it around with him, inside him, and if you looked in at it you were afraid and fascinated and excited all at once.

“Where is he?” she said at last. “Where is he now?”

“They went off together,” Paula said, “he and Dubois.” She thought with a shock: why, she loved him, perhaps the way I love Chad. And he is a murderer...

She said to Gracie, “I think we’ll leave her alone for a while. Could I bring you something, Isobel?”

“No,” Isobel said. “No, nothing.”

“I’ll stay here,” Gracie said.

And she did stay. She sat quietly in a chair for some time, not looking at Isobel.

“Hell,” she said finally, “you’ll meet some other guy some time. Don’t let it throw you. You just let me know and I’ll introduce you to a whole squadron of them. And with your clothes and looks and figure and everything...” Her voice faded.

Isobel opened her eyes and smiled slightly. “Thank you,” she said. “Thanks, Gracie.”

“You weren’t honestly stuck on him anyway. It was just a flash in the pan.”

“A flash in the pan. A very neat description.”

“Write it off as experience,” Gracie said. “God knows you need some.”

“Shall we change the subject?” Isobel said with an impatient gesture of her head.

“We could, but I sort of like this one,” Gracie said cheerfully, “especially now that I know you’re not going off half-cocked. I’m just crazy about romance.” She gazed thoughtfully out of the window. “It’s a funny thing, but I never get much of it. There’s just two kinds of guys in my life, the kind that want to sleep with me and the kind that don’t. So I got to look out for myself.”

Isobel stirred again. “And you do?”

“And I do. You want some more cheering up?”

“No, I guess I’m all cheered up,” Isobel said soberly. She drew in her breath and found she could say his name almost as if it didn’t matter to her. “Crawford — Crawford was Miss Rudd’s brother?”

Gracie nodded silently.

“And he killed her, I suppose. He killed her when I asked him to go down and tend to the fire, and then he came up to the kitchen and I talked to him. He was looking for some brandy...”

“No damn wonder,” Gracie said dryly.

“... and he didn’t turn a hair, he was so natural and cheerful.”

“I guess he was glad to get rid of her,” Gracie said. “It’s kind of hard to have crazy relatives, you know, like my aunt. And Miss Rudd kept giving him away. She kept calling him Harry but nobody caught on except me and then it was too late. I guess he actually was stealing from her, paintings, and furniture and things.”

“Yes,” Isobel said stiffly. “Yes.”

“And Floraine helped him. Seems funny though, that he kept up this house when he could have sent Frances away to an institution.”

“He kept her here because he was ashamed of her,” Isobel said, “and because, I think, this house had been used before by people like Jeanneret, perhaps for political meetings or perhaps for certain people to hide out in. I think Floraine ran the house. I think she was — his mistress.”

Gracie lowered her eyes and said uneasily, “Yeah, I think she was.”

“And he killed her because he — well, he might have just been angry with her. He didn’t need a better reason than that.”

But there was something that didn’t quite fit in and for a minute she couldn’t remember what it was.

Then she thought, of course, it’s the way he acted when he found Floraine, and brought her into the house. He was shocked, that’s the word. After he killed Frances he acted almost normal, he seemed happy in the excited way Frances herself was happy when she brought the newspapers to Gracie as a present.

She remembered him looking down at Floraine when she was lying in the hall. He had looked savage and frightened and his voice had been rough: “My nerves are bad and when my nerves are bad I want action, any kind of action...”

He had come over and kissed her then, and his mouth had been hard and cold.

He was afraid, Isobel thought, that’s what fear does to me, it makes me cold all over. What was he afraid of?

She remembered then when she had stood outside Miss Rudd’s door and listened to see if she was asleep. It had not been Miss Rudd in that dark room. It had been Floraine, talking to Crawford: “Don’t lose your nerve. She can’t do a thing to spoil it...”

They were talking about me, Isobel thought. And if I had rapped on Crawford’s door then as I intended to, I would have found out he was in there with Floraine. But Joyce came along and interrupted. And Joyce had said, “Don’t rely on Mr. Crawford.”

Isobel thought, when he came over and kissed me in the hall he was afraid of me. That’s why he did it. He had always to come and meet danger more than halfway. That’s why he paid so much attention to me — he thought I had killed Floraine.

Gracie said, “There you go thinking about him again. I can tell.”

“Yes, I was.”

“Just asking for trouble.”

“I believe I am,” Isobel said slowly. “I think I’m going to ask for trouble.”

She got off the bed and straightened her skirt. Her head felt too light and her legs too heavy, but she found she could walk.

“Where are you going?” Gracie said.

“Just downstairs.”

“Do you want me to come?”

“If you’d like to.”

“I don’t think I will,” Gracie said. “I’m getting damn well sick of that crowd.”

“You could do your hair again,” Isobel said dryly, “and I have some nail polish in my purse you could have.”

Gracie brightened. “That’d be swell.”

The purse and nail polish were found and Gracie settled happily down in her room. Isobel went downstairs.

Except for Chad and Joyce Hunter, who were still outside, the group was gathered in the sitting room. Herbert and Mr. Hunter had built a fire in the grate on the theory that the sight of a nice hearth fire would enliven their spirits.

Unfortunately the only sight of the fire the others had was obtained by peering around Mrs. Vista’s broad and unbeautiful backside. For Mrs. Vista was not one to consider the comfort of others, and having lived in England all her married life she was well acquainted with the strategy of hearth fires, which is to get there first.

She rubbed her hands together and said there was nothing like a hearth fire, and when Maudie acidly inquired, “Where is it? What fire?” Mrs. Vista merely thought how ungracious she was. Coarse and ungracious.

She was rather annoyed to find herself being jostled from the rear and still more annoyed when she discovered that the jostler was Isobel Seton. For no matter how charming Miss Seton’s exterior, Miss Seton was a troublemaker and Mrs. Vista felt unable to cope with any extra trouble at the moment.

“I want to talk to you,” Isobel said.

Mrs. Vista closed her eyes firmly and tried to pretend that Isobel was not there.

But Isobel was there and she proved it by clasping Mrs. Vista’s arm, not at all gently.

“Did you hear me?” Isobel said.

“I suppose I did,” Mrs. Vista said sadly.

“You had the room beside Crawford’s, didn’t you?”

Mrs. Vista said, yes, it was impossible to forget that because Mr. Crawford had snored off and on all night and she hadn’t had a wink of sleep.

Isobel said, “You were in your room when you heard Floraine scream?”

“Yes, I don’t care to think about...”

“And Paula was in the bathroom?”

“Yes.”

Paula had overheard and come over to join them. “Why?” she said frowning. “Why all this?”

“Did you hear Crawford snoring?”

“Yes, of course. You couldn’t miss it,” Paula said. “That’s why I decided to wake him...”

Her voice died suddenly and she blinked her eyes.

“And if he was sleeping,” Isobel said, “he wasn’t pushing Floraine off a balcony.”

“I won’t listen,” Mrs. Vista said. “I will not listen to anything more. I simply refuse.”

Paula and Isobel looked at each other. Then Paula blinked again and said, “Very likely I was mistaken about hearing Mr. Crawford snore. I can’t be sure.”

“Of course you can’t,” Mrs. Vista cried. “Nor can I. My nerves... I’m a very suggestible type. Aren’t I, Anthony?”

Mr. Goodwin said, “Oh, yes, yes, yes.”

Mrs. Vista turned back to Isobel and said bitterly, “You cannot leave well enough alone. You are a troublemaker, there is no other word for you!”

Isobel cried, “And you — you are a...!”

But what Mrs. Vista was to Isobel was not revealed, for a sudden shout rang through the house and Joyce came bursting into the door.

“A snowplow!” she shouted. “There’s a snowplow coming!”

Mr. Hunter, who was acquainted with his daughter’s little experiments in psychology, said, “Now, Joyce. You’re sure? You’re positive?”

“I,” Joyce said, “am always sure.”

She dashed out of the door again, and the rest followed her, with Mrs. Vista wobbling along in the rear.

Only Paula and Isobel remained, looking at each other quietly.

“You know you heard him,” Isobel said at last.

“I didn’t want to excite everyone,” Paula said. “Mrs. Vista is rather silly sometimes, but in this case I think she was right. Leave it alone until we’re out of this house.”

Isobel shrugged and said, “All right. Shall we go and look at the snowplow?”

“No.” Paula turned her face away. “I’m not sure I want to see it. I’m not sure...”

Isobel went out and met Gracie plunging down the stairs trying to talk and blow on her nail polish to dry it at the same time. They went out onto the veranda and watched the snowplow come slowly along the road and almost up to the veranda steps.

The whirl of snow stopped and two men got out of the truck. One of them was in uniform. He waved his hand and then began plodding his way through the snow towards the house. They seemed to move with inexorable slowness, like two fates.

“Ahoy!” Mrs. Vista shouted, and the man in uniform raised his arm and smiled. “Ahoy! You the Lodge people?”

Joyce stood apart from the rest of them, her dark eyes taking in their faces one by one, almost absently.

She knows, Isobel thought, watching her. She knows it wasn’t Crawford. She’s waiting for one of us to crack...

But no one did crack, not even Maudie, who, faced with the choice of fainting from excitement or powdering her nose, powdered her nose. Mrs. Vista tucked in a few stray wisps of hair. Mr. Hunter stroked his mustache thoughtfully. Gracie admired her nails. Mr. Goodwin had retreated into the vast chasm of his own mind.

And Isobel stood with her eyes fixed on the snow and for a minute she thought she saw Crawford poised against the sun, a strange glittering man who fled from hell to hell and had no peace anywhere.

She was barely conscious of the arrival of the two men on the veranda, the explanations, the questions, all shouted at once in every pitch.

“He went that way!” Mrs. Vista shrieked. “Hurry up and catch him!”

“There are two of them!” Maudie said shrilly.

Under this battery of noise Sergeant Mackay did not even blink. When things had quieted down he coughed and said in a dignified voice:

“Mackay, of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. This is Mr. Hearst, who drives the Lodge bus.”

There was a short silence. Then Gracie said brightly, “Gee, we’re glad to see you! I’m just crazy about policemen!”