Fire Will Freeze

17

“... an ill-timed remark,” wrote Mrs. Vista to her sister, in the knotty pine writing room of the Lodge. “It set the mood, as it were, for the subsequent events, and Sergeant Mackay became friendly, not to say intimate. (I do not quite trust a friendly Scot, do you?) Practically in front of everyone I was forced to explain all about Cecil and Anthony and why I came here in the first place. One thinks one has nothing to hide and then it turns out that one has! Too humiliating!

“While we were all answering this policeman’s questions, the young man called Hearst drove away in the truck and came back with our lost bus.

“And so here we are! We arrived about six o’clock and after the rigors to which I have been subjected I was delighted to find that the Chateau is quite a civilized place, and the apparent ruggedness remains, as ruggedness should, only apparent. Sergeant Mackay made no objections to our coming here, so I presume the mystery, for him at least, is adequately explained. At any rate we have no policemen around guarding us, as frequently happens in fiction. But perhaps even policemen have some sense and Mackay is only too glad to be rid of such traitors and agitators as Floraine and Jeanneret and that man Rudd.

“It was sheer ill-luck that we were so involved in the events. I am still just a little foggy on the explanation, but it seems that this man Jeanneret was a very dangerous agitator who was interned somewhere near Montreal in a reform school converted into an internment camp. At any rate Rudd helped him to escape in a laundry truck, and they managed to get as far as Briaree, which is where the Montreal train line ends and where the snow bus met us.

“The laundry truck broke down and there was a blizzard coming on, and Jeanneret conceived the idea of stealing the bus which, beside the snowplow, was the only vehicle which could get through the roads. Jeanneret could not go back in the direction of Montreal where they were on the watch for him, and besides, Sergeant Mackay believes that he was on his way to the important new mining area north of here. Something to do with the war, but that, of course, is a secret! How one goes about agitating in a mining area, I don’t know. One can only say that it takes all kinds to make a world!

“There is a delightful man here, who teaches skiing. He escaped from Austria just after the Anschluss. I wonder if perhaps a little skiing might bring down my weight...”

Mrs. Vista stared thoughtfully out of the window and saw two beginners at the top of a gentle slope. One of them started down and landed almost instantly, skis waving in the air. Mrs. Vista returned hastily to her letter.

“...or perhaps I shall simply go on a diet. This will be difficult, as they have a magnificent cuisine here, and this morning I had real Quebec maple syrup — simply crawling with calories, of course, but perhaps I shouldn’t worry about my weight at all. One is not expected to look like a girl at forty-five!

“The Austrian ski-meister is called Putzi, I don’t know why. But I shall find out...”

Mrs. Vista looked up at the sound of ski boots tramping across the floor. It was Paula Lashley and she looked very pale, Mrs. Vista thought. She laid down her pen.

“Hello, my dear,” she said heartily. “Are you going to write a letter?”

“No.”

Paula went over to the window and glanced out. “I’m waiting for the bus to leave.”

“Leave! Why we only came yesterday.”

“I’ve changed my mind,” Paula said curtly. “I haven’t got time for skiing this winter.”

“Is your young man going, too?”

“He’s not my young man. He’s staying here.”

Paula continued to stare out of the window, watching Mr. Hearst tinkering with the engine of the bus. She tapped her foot impatiently and she looked as if she didn’t want to talk. But Mrs. Vista never allowed such considerations to interfere with her own desires.

“Of course he’s your young man,” she stated firmly. “I have observed the nasty way he looks at you. It is a sure sign.”

“Really?”

“Really. Of course I am not an old woman, but I have lived. And one has only to look around one to interpret the signs of love. In just that way, Cecil used to look at me. Among lesser animals, too, my dear. Has one ever seen a gorilla give his mate a really friendly look? One has not!”

“I am not interested in gorillas,” Paula said coldly, “with or without red hair.”

She looked out again and saw that Mr. Hearst was still fooling with the engine of the bus. She began to fidget, pushing her hands in and out of the pockets of her jacket.

“I cannot understand anyone who is not interested in animals,” Mrs. Vista said severely. “It would not surprise me to learn that you are a vivisectionist.”

With this cutting reply, Mrs. Vista gathered up the sheets of her letter and sailed out into the lobby. She caught a glimpse of Chad Ross hurrying towards the writing room and regretted her own departure, for she dearly loved scenes. But still there was nothing to be done about it, it would be far too crass to go back now.

Ah, well — she would find Anthony and he would read one of his poems to her — poor Anthony, what a pity he didn’t look like Putzi...

“So you’re leaving,” Chad said from the doorway.

Paula turned with a start. She pressed her lips together to keep them from trembling.

“Yes,” she said.

Chad crossed the room, impatiently kicking aside a chair that was in his way.

“What,” he said, “if I don’t let you?”

“Let me!”

“You heard me.” He reached out and grabbed both her wrists and held them. “Now scream, baby.”

“You’re hurting me. Let me go.”

“Hell, that’s not loud enough. Come on, louder.”

He bent down and looked savagely into her face. “Scream, baby. Go on.”

“I... I... I can’t,” Paula said in a strangled whisper. “My voice...”

“You can’t, eh?” He let go of her wrists and stood back from her. He was smiling grimly. “You can’t, eh? Not a sound?”

Paula opened her mouth, but even the whisper was gone now.

“This,” Chad said, “is my lucky day. Get going.”

She looked at him, her eyes wide, and her mouth moving soundlessly.

“Ladies who can’t scream are my meat.” He took her arm and half-carried her across the room. “Now listen. We’re going through that lobby and you’re going to be a nice quiet girl.”

Paula shook her head violently.

“Yes, you are,” Chad said, leering at her. “Or I’ll tell them you’ve been hitting the bottle or having an epileptic fit. Come on.”

His hand tightened on her arm and they went across the lobby very quickly, Paula stumbling as she moved.

Behind the desk Monsieur Roche raised his beautiful eyebrows and said, “Ah, la jeunesse! Always in the hurry.”

In his room Chad closed the door, locked it and flung the keys on the bed.

“Can’t you scream yet?”

Paula shook her head.

“You’d better try. This is your last chance. Come on, try.”

Paula shook her head again. Chad came over and put his hands on her shoulders.

“Paula,” he said dryly, “you’re not putting up much of a fight. Mamma Lashley wouldn’t like that.”

Paula lowered her eyes and said primly, “I don’t believe in fighting.”

He looked at her much as the gorilla looks at his mate when he has something on his mind.

It would have delighted Mrs. Vista had she been there. But she was not there. Having failed to find Anthony she was in the lobby passing the time with Putzi, whose name turned out to be Herman Grube.

Mr. Grube proved disappointing. He kept looking sternly first at his watch, then at the elevator door. He did not seem interested in Mrs. Vista’s personal reactions to the Anschluss, and he was not, Mrs. Vista found, very amiable.

Far, far too serious, she decided. One could never imagine him swinging gaily to the strains of a Viennese waltz. Ah well, one never could quite trust an Austrian anyway. Look at Hitler.

She was not sorry when Mr. Grube rose, clicked his heels and marched across the lobby. To Isobel, emerging reluctantly from the elevator, he said severely:

“Your lesson. You are late. Permit me to ask you to be on time each morning. My services are valuable.”

Startled by this attack, Isobel found herself explaining weakly, “I’m sorry, I was tired. I was all doped up yesterday, and the night before I shoveled a ton of coal and...” Conscious of the baffled look creeping into Mr. Grube’s eyes, she stopped. “All right. I’m ready now.”

Mr. Grube bowed and led the way across the lobby. These American ladies, he thought gloomily, they do not seem sense-making. Isobel, in her bright orange ski suit with the price tag swinging waggishly just over her rear, followed him outside. She had chosen the color especially, because she wanted all other skiers to see her plainly and be able to fend for themselves.

Mr. Grube, however, intimated in his subtle Central European way that he did not like the ski suit.

“The color,” he said. “It is not correct. For contrast with the snow it requires merely a touch of brilliant color.”

“So,” Isobel said.

“So,” said Mr. Grube sternly. “Here we halt.”

He took her skis, examined them carefully, made a disapproving noise, and then showed her how to carry them.

“Now that we’re alone together,” Isobel said, “you can cut out the act, Mr. Schultz.”

Mr. Grube stared at her.

“I beg your pardon, Madame?”

“Just skip the temperament. I know all about you. A friend of mine told me.”

“Madame?” Mr. Grube said, looking baffled again. “You feel entirely well?”

“She said the nearest you’ve been to Austria is the World’s Fair. You come from Ontario and your name is Schultz. Well, I don’t mind that part, but I’d like to make our relations clear.”

Mr. Grube opened his mouth and let out a feeble laugh. “Ha, ha, ha. You are one of these who joke!”

Isobel felt her face becoming warm. “Come on, Mr. Schultz. You might as well admit it.”

“I admit it!” Mr. Grube said with desperate gaiety. “The lesson. We proceed. How you joke, ha ha!”

He showed her how to fasten her skis.

“The heels must be free.”

“Heels free. Yes, Mr. Schultz.”

He looked at her sideways and edged away.

“The knees bent. Notice me.”

“The knees bent. Yes, Mr. Schultz.”

“Madame will please use my correct name, Grube,” he said earnestly. “I cannot concentrate when I am made mock of.”

He sounded so intense that Isobel looked across at him. His eyes were wide and completely bewildered.

She swallowed and said, “You know the girl who’s going to dance at the Lodge?”

“Girl? Dance?”

“You know, dance for the guests as in a night club. She said you helped her get her job.”

“Madame,” Mr. Grube said simply, “I am confused. We do not hire dancers. Our entertainment is all sporting. I know no such girl.”

“You must know her!” Isobel cried. “She knows you. You got her this job. Really, this has gone far enough!”

“It has,” Mr. Grube said. “My name is not Schultz.”

He was sweating now, and casting anguished glances back at the Lodge.

“Well,” Isobel said weakly. “Well, well.”

“You have had sufficient lesson?” Mr. Grube said hopefully. “You are tired? The sun is too strong for you, perhaps?”

“Yes,” Isobel said. “Take these silly things off my feet. I’ve got business to attend to.”

Mr. Grube moved with great agility. Isobel left him staring thoughtfully first at her skis which he held, and then at her back.

She went into the lobby and looked around. Joyce and Mr. Hunter were talking to the Thropples beside the desk. Joyce waved and Isobel came over to her. With unexpected friendliness, Joyce tucked her hand inside Isobel’s arm.

“Had your lesson?” she asked.

“Not exactly,” Isobel said. “I’m looking for Gracie. Has anyone seen her?”

“Don’t be in a hurry,” Joyce said, drawing her aside. “I’ve just been talking to Sergeant Mackay in Briaree. I rang him up as soon as the wires were fixed. He said that Crawford was shot resisting arrest and that Floraine died of heart failure.” She lowered her voice. “You’re very lucky. I was afraid they’d catch on to you.”

“What?” Isobel said blankly. “What did you say?”

“Oh, I’m not going to tell anyone, naturally. But I was pretty sure right from the first. Sexual conflict. The perfect motive. You fought with her over Crawford, when you found out she was Crawford’s mistress. I heard you quarreling with her right after the cat was found.”

“You must be crazy,” Isobel said. “We were arguing about her putting the cat in the furnace! I never even knew she was Crawford’s...”

“Sh!” Joyce said. “That’s your story and it’s very wise to stick to it.” She gave Isobel a long narrow look. “You have strength of character, Miss Seton. I have decided to withdraw my objections to a rapprochement between Poppa and you.”

Isobel gazed at her wordlessly.

“I think it would be intensely interesting to have a woman like you for a stepmother, and I do believe you can handle Poppa. I’ve been worried about leaving him alone when the time comes when I myself shall seek a mate. Poppa needs a firm hand. And so I give him to you.”

With a gracious smile she went back to her father.

“Your key, Miss Seton?” said Monsieur Roche. “You wish the key?”

Isobel turned sharply. “No, thanks. Tell me, is Miss Morning still in her room?”

“Morning, Morning,” said Monsieur Roche. “Yes. Morning. Yes. Room two-ten.”

“Thank you.”

She took the elevator upstairs and walked slowly along the hall. Two sentences flashed like neon before her eyes:

Miss Rudd was let out after Floraine screamed.

Gracie let her out. She rapped on Gracie’s door, and a cheerful voice sang out, “Come on in!” Then Gracie herself opened the door. “Oh, it’s you. Well, come in. I’m doing my hair. What’s the matter with you?”

Isobel shut the door and leaned against it. She said, “I think you killed Floraine.”

Gracie’s comb clattered to the floor. She leaned over to pick it up. “That’s a funny thing to say,” she said warily.

“I was stupid not to have known it before. You let Miss Rudd out of her room.”

“Well, you knew that. I explained that. I felt sorry for...”

“I don’t want to hear any more of your preposterous lies. Why on earth did you tell me that about the skiing teacher? Didn’t you know that as soon as I found out the truth I’d begin to doubt all the rest of your stories?”

“They weren’t lies,” Gracie said sharply. “I’m not that dumb. Schultzie was fired since I heard from him.”

“And the dancing business?”

Gracie looked uncomfortable. “Well, I guess I sort of exaggerated that. I’m a dancer, all right, but I’ve been on my uppers for awhile and I came up here to be — to be a sort of hostess. A glorified waitress,” she added bitterly.

Isobel stared at her and thought, she’s more ashamed of that than she is of having killed Floraine.

“You did kill her, didn’t you?”

“Not exactly. It wasn’t my fault. It was an accident.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing.”

“You can’t do nothing. You killed her. You’re admitting it.”

“Not to anyone but you,” Gracie said. “And they can’t do anything to me, because it was an accident. She tried to kill me first.” She shrugged her shoulders fatalistically. “It was a case of her or me, so it was her. I pushed her over the balcony.”

“The balcony of her room,” Isobel said. “Why did you go there?”

Gracie came over and sat on the edge of the bed. “Listen, you never had to look out for yourself, did you?”

“You can make the excuses later.”

“They aren’t excuses,” Gracie said simply. “I’m telling you why I went to her room. I told you before that I knew she shot off the rifle and killed the cat just to get rid of us. And I figured if she wanted to get rid of us so badly she had a good reason. And then I figured if she had a good reason she’d be willing to pay to keep it quiet.”

“Blackmail,” Isobel said.

“Well, if you want to fuss around with words, call it blackmail. I didn’t call it anything. I needed money and I saw a chance to get it and I got to look out for myself. I knew there was something between Crawford and Floraine. You remember when she shot at us and Crawford made us all get down in the snow? But he stood up and waved his hat. He was signaling to her.

“And anyway I’d seen him before in a night club in Montreal and his name wasn’t Crawford or Rudd. Somebody pointed him out as a smooth crook. He was scattering money around to beat hell, but there was something about him I didn’t want a part of — he looked too dangerous.

“Well, anyway, there was Crawford carrying a gun and signaling to Floraine and I began to smell a plot. And then when Miss Rudd began to call him Harry, the rest of you thought she was crazy, but me, I wasn’t so sure. I watched him carefully and I saw he was scared to death of her. Then I saw that there’d been a lot of things removed from the house, like pictures and furniture, and Miss Rudd kept accusing Harry of stealing. So that clicked. I was sure he was Harry Rudd, and that he and Floraine were playing a smelly game between them.

“The crazy part of it is, I didn’t know what the game was till afterwards! I let on to Floraine that I knew and she thought I did. But I didn’t figure it out until Miss Rudd brought me the papers with Jeanneret’s picture in every one of them. Then the bus driver’s clothes that you found, and the ski wax and Floraine being so anxious to kick us out added up. Jeanneret was the driver. He went to the house and Floraine fitted him out with skis, food and clothing. Then he went on his way. But that didn’t work out on account of the blizzard.

“One thing sort of puzzled me until I talked to Sergeant Mackay. Why didn’t Crawford drive the bus? Well, Mackay said Jeanneret didn’t trust Crawford an inch. Crawford was always sort of wild, and I guess Jeanneret figured he’d handle everything himself as far as he could. And it turned out he was right,” Gracie added grimly. “You never get anywhere trusting people. You got to look out for yourself.”

“You said that before,” Isobel said dryly. “So you went to Floraine’s room.”

“I went to her room,” Gracie said. “You were sleeping. You’d been up for a long time snooping...”

“That’s why you wouldn’t go with me, wasn’t it? You didn’t want anyone to get suspicious about you.”

Gracie nodded. “You were sleeping pretty well and didn’t hear me. Floraine’s room was right next door so I went out by the balcony and rapped on her window. I could tell she thought it was Crawford because she came to the window all smiles and opened it. I said I wanted to talk to her and she said we couldn’t talk inside the house, she’d get a coat and come out.

“When she came out I told her I knew who Crawford was and what the two of them were doing, and without any warning she grabbed me by the throat. She was crazy about Crawford, she would have done anything for him. I guess a lot of women would.”

“Yes,” Isobel said.

“Well, she started to choke me. I wasn’t very frightened because I’m strong. I can do a one-arm handstand. I didn’t even scream.”

“You pushed her off,” Isobel said.

“She was going to kill me. I had to. She just screamed once, very faintly, as she was going over. I waited as long as I could out there and when I didn’t hear anything more I figured — well, I figured she was dead and I better get back to my room. I came in our window just as Mrs. Vista began to shout. You were just waking up and you were too sleepy to notice that my feet were wet from the snow. Anyway, nobody caught on and if I acted funny, well, the rest of you were acting a little funny, too.

“Then poor Miss Rudd began pounding on her door. It’s funny how the rest of you kept thinking she killed Floraine when all the time she was locked in her room, and the windows locked, too. Well, I thought it would be a good idea if the rest of you kept thinking that, and a good idea to keep Crawford confused. He was so scared of her, and I figured she could be a sort of bodyguard for me if Crawford caught on to me. And I also felt sorry for her, naturally, on account of my aunt, so I let her out.”

She stubbed her cigarette. “I’m kind of sorry I did it now. I didn’t want her to be murdered.”

“Such delicacy of feeling,” Isobel said.

“I’m very soft-hearted,” Gracie said. “I’m always letting my heart run away with my head.”

“But not very far.”

“But I guess she’s better off this way,” Gracie added, more cheerfully.

“He’s dead, too.”

“Is he? My, things are certainly working out, especially for me. Though it’s no job for a girl like me, being a waitress practically.” She let out a sigh. “Well, I guess that’s all.”

“And you really think you can get away with it?” Isobel said.

“Well, my goodness, I didn’t actually murder anybody. It was pure accident. Besides, nobody knows but you and me.”

“It’s my duty to tell the authorities. I’m sorry, but it’s my duty.”

“They won’t believe you,” Gracie said calmly. “That nice policeman thinks I’m cute, and I bet when they open her up they’ll find she died of heart failure. I read about how they find things out like that and how people’s hearts may fail when they’re falling.”

Isobel said nothing.

“Anyway,” Gracie added, “I think I should even get a medal. They were a nasty bunch of crooks, if you ask me.”

“It’s my duty to tell...” Isobel began again, but she knew how useless it was to go on. She went out into the corridor and walked slowly towards the elevator.

When she reached the lobby she saw that Monsieur Roche and Mr. Grube were in earnest and worried conversation. She approached the desk, and Mr. Grube looked at her with a feeble smile.

Monsieur Roche smiled, too, but he seemed very pale.

Isobel said, “I want you to telephone for the police.”

“The police?” Monsieur Roche said with forced gaiety. “The police. Ah, yes. May I ask — that is, may I ask, why?”

“I have information about a murder,” Isobel said.

Mr. Grube and Monsieur Roche exchanged sickly smiles.

“Ha, ha,” said Mr. Grube. “The joke again. Such a one you are for jokes!”

“Ha, ha, ha,” said Monsieur Roche. “We are on to you! We perceive!”

“This is no joke,” Isobel said sternly. “I said I have information about a murder and it is my duty to...”

“Ho, ho, ho!” Monsieur Roche doubled over, his hands clasping his stomach in mirth.

Every eye in the lobby had turned towards the desk and the orange ski suit with the dangling price tag. Roars of laughter began to echo through the room.

Isobel turned and ran wildly towards the steps.

Monsieur Roche sobered instantly.

“Every year we get such a one,” he said gloomily. “Me, I do not understand it.”

“Also me,” said Mr. Grube.

At the first bend in the steps Isobel paused to catch her breath. Through the window on the landing she saw a cutter go past with a flutter of snow and bells.

A voice behind her said, “I have quite a way with horses.”

Isobel turned and regarded Mr. Hunter.

“How nice for you,” she said. “And them.”

“I was wondering,” Mr. Hunter said, undeterred by a certain coldness in Isobel’s eye. “I was thinking perhaps you and I could go for a cutter ride.”

“No doubt Joyce is behind this invitation?”

“Well, in a manner of speaking, yes. But I concur.” He leaned towards her and looked almost wolfish for a moment. “I violently concur.”

“Well,” Isobel said faintly, “in that case, I don’t mind if I do.”