More Good Old Stuff

A Corpse in His Dreams (Mystery Book Magazine, Spring 1949)

In his dream, as in a thousand dreams before, Alicia Crane called to him, her voice thin, sweet, clear.

“Matthew! Matthew, darling. Matthew Otis!”

“But you’re dead!” he said in his dream. “Dead, dead, dead, dead.”

Odd that she couldn’t or wouldn’t believe. And what was she doing here in China? There was a battle coming up.

Above the sound of her voice he could hear the sound of battle. The distant slap of rifles, the surly crump of mortar, the guttural whack of a grenade.

“You’re dead, Alicia Crane! Dead!”

But he couldn’t make her hear. “Matthew! Matthew, darling!”

He awoke, his leg cramped from being braced against the green plush of the seat in front of him. The train, huffing laboriously along the coast toward Cranesbay, rocked and jolted on the uneven railbed. The vivid dream made everything unreal. Yes, Alicia was dead. He had killed her just nine years before. Nine years this month.

November 1939.

He turned to peer out into the darkness. The lights of a farmhouse appeared, then fled off into the night.

He picked the magazine up off the littered floor, and turned to the article he had been reading when he fell asleep. “Cheap Death in China,” by Matthew Otis. With a wry smile he reread the editor’s introduction:

Matthew yawned and put the magazine on the seat beside him. Maybe one day he’d write an article that would tell them the motivation behind his efforts. Maybe one day he’d tell them he had lived in the distant places of the earth because he fled from a girl who would not stay properly dead.

And he would have to tell them that he was returning to Cranesbay for the first time since it had happened, hoping that in some way he would be able to rid himself of the nightmare that had been his ever since the day of her death. The night of her death.

He smiled. That would be a fine article. He would tell how during that first year he had carried her, fresh and vivid, in his mind. The tone of her voice. The warmth of her lips. The proud, high way in which she carried her head.

But in nine years his memories had grown more, rather than less, vivid. He could not escape her. She made all his days of danger tasteless, his vain seeking of delight insipid.

He knew that he was afraid to come back.

And yet if he was ever to be able to live in the present and in the future, it had to be done.

Guilt is a hand across the eyes, a knife at the heart. There can be no peace, no joy, no ecstasy, no pride in accomplishment. With guilt all there can be is a pseudo-life where one goes through the motions expected of an adult, and carries in his mind the horrors imagined by a child.

The aged coach jolted and the gray smoke hung in wet strands across the stale air yellowed by the coach lights. Across the aisle a doughy woman reached for a whining child that fought to get away from her. In the seat ahead two sailors, two tired blue-and-white memories of wartime, slept noisily with their mouths open.

He felt the rising tide of excitement, a chill that ran down his back, a hollow feeling in his stomach. But it was the excitement of a man who, alone in a factory at night, has caught his fingers in slow-moving gears and knows that the gears will inevitably pull in his arm, elbow, shoulder, killing him at last.

The excitement of a man whose car is plunged into a dizzy skid across sheer ice toward the inevitable precipice.

Matthew Otis on vacation!

Matthew Otis returning to appease the ghosts of long ago. A private Munich.

Matthew Otis returning to the overgrown village of Cranesbay, where he had become an adult, fallen in love with Alicia Crane and killed her.

The train’s whistle was a lonesome call at a deserted crossing. Out there in the darkness was the ocean. To his left were the high hills, shrouded by night. Ahead would be the crescent of Cranesbay, a city carelessly arranged on the shelf of land between the hills and the sea. The train whistled again and something within him answered the lonely cry.

There was no way to leap out into the night rain, turn back across half the earth. It was done. The symbol of fulfillment was the little orange cardboard ticket wedged into the window lever. In his mind was the memory of her echoing voice in his dream.

It was mingled with the memory of long ago, when her voice had been different. When her eyes had looked on him and found him good. When her hand...

Alicia Crane reached her hand across the table and traced the blue vein on the back of his hand.

The dance floor was crowded and the band was giving a not ineffective imitation of Goodman.

“Matt,” she said softly, “what are the words you use when two people are like this?”

He smiled at her. “Meant for each other.”

“Don’t sound so flip, darling,” she said.

“I can’t help it, Alicia. Nineteen thirty-nine is a wisecrack period. A hundred years ago I’d be swearing eternal devotion and getting my tight pants all dirty by kneeling in front of you, my right hand over my heart.”

“Couldn’t you do that now, Matt?”

“Sure, but you’d think I was clowning. No, honey. I have to tell you I love you as though it were the punch line in a wisecrack and then you believe me. I love you, honey.”

“I want to be kissed,” she said firmly.

He began to get up, saying, “We can take a walk out to the car.”

“Yes, but later, Matt. When I was a kid I always saved the icing until last. Let’s just sit and think of how nice that kiss is going to be. Then it will taste even better.”

She smiled and something about the way her gray eyes looked made his heart pause in its beat.

Suddenly the smile faded as she looked toward the door.

“What is it?”

“Roy Bedford, Matt. I was afraid for a minute he was drunk. He hates you, Matt.”

“I don’t blame him, honey. He had the nicest girl in the world and she belongs to me now. Let him hate me.”

“If he comes over, please be nice, Matt.”

“If he’s nice, I’ll be nice.”

He glanced across the dance floor. Roy Bedford was with a girl who had her hair frizzed out in a mop. Her mouth was dark with lipstick. Roy led her to a booth and Matt saw him glance over, murmur something to the girl, then cross over toward them.

He had an easy smile on his face. He was tall, with a sharp, aquiline face, crisp dark hair and eyes set so far apart as to give him an odd opaque look.

He walked up to the booth, smiled down at Alicia and said, “How’re the lovebugs getting along, lovely?” There was a slur in his voice.

“Just fine, Roy,” Alicia said blandly.

Matt said, “Sit down a minute and have a drink, Roy.”

To his surprise Roy sat beside Alicia and said, “Thanks.”

They stared across at each other and behind them was the history of a vicious competition that had begun in grade school. Roy Bedford had seemed to depend on winning as much as on breathing. And this time he had lost. Once before he had lost. Back when the high school basketball coach had tried to start a boxing team...

(Through puffed eye, through maze of blood and pain, standing on wavering legs, Matt looked down at Roy Bedford, who, with blind fury, was crawling to his feet to be smashed to the floor again. The hoarse sound of Bedford’s breathing was loud in the deserted gym.

Matt said, “Had enough?”

Roy rushed him, staggering, blundering. Matt, his arms like lead, beat him once more to the floor. Roy Bedford didn’t get up. Instead he rolled onto his stomach and began to sob, loudly, hoarsely. Matt untied the gloves, walked slowly to the showers and washed away the blood and part of the pain. When he looked back Roy was sitting on one of the stools, his face in his hands. Matt knew he would never be forgiven. That ended the boxing team.)

Roy Bedford was defeated again — and by the same person. Alicia is mine, Matt thought. And he knows it.

The drinks came; Roy drank his quickly. Matt looked curiously across the room. The girl Roy had brought still sat there.

Matt said, “Maybe your girl’s lonesome, Roy. Maybe you better trot on back.”

“Alicia doesn’t want me to go,” Roy said lightly.

“Don’t be so silly, Roy,” Alicia said. Her tone was also light. “We’ve got nothing to talk about. Ever. You’d make me happy if you’d just go away. Don’t think that you make me uncomfortable. You just bore me.”

Across the room Rose Carney snapped open her purse, took out her cigarettes and ripped the cellophane from the pack. She had seen Roy sit down with Matt Otis and that Crane girl.

What does he think I am? she thought. How much does he think I’ll stand for?

But she knew that there was no limit to what she would stand for from Roy Bedford. Still it would be wise to let him know he had angered her. Be cool with him. Push him away, even when the touch of his hands turned the whole world swimming.

He wouldn’t go over there if he didn’t still want that Crane girl, Rose thought. It gave her a feeling of great loneliness.

The waiter sauntered over and said, “I see you come in with that fellow, but is he joining that party over there? The boss don’t allow no women without an escort.”

“If you think he isn’t with me, try throwing me out and see what he does. That’s Roy Bedford, friend.”

The waiter arched his eyebrows. “Is that supposed to mean something?”

“It doesn’t right now. But it will.”

The waiter walked away. Rose knew how much the name Roy Bedford was going to mean in Cranesbay. She sensed the hard quality of his indomitable ambition, his need to acquire power. In the soft, secret silences of the night when he had talked of himself, he had told her a little.

(“Dad was the town drunk, Rosie, and I can see them looking at me and thinking about how I’m going to turn out to be a bum like he was. I’m glad I didn’t go to college like the rest of them. Rosie, I was learning how to do things the hard way. College punks, that’s what they are. Matt Otis, Evan Cleveland, the Furnivall girls. I’ll show every last one of them. Okay, so I got grease under my nails now from working as a mechanic for Jud Proctor. But last week he let me buy into the garage. In a year or two I’m going to edge him out. The garage will give me dough to get into other things, Rosie. Lots of other things.”

“Like marriage, maybe?” she had asked hopefully.

“No time for that, Rosie,” he had said, reaching for her.)

Suddenly he slipped into the booth opposite her. She said quickly, “Thanks, Roy. Thanks a lot! All they were going to do was throw me out because they thought I was alone. I should think—”

She stopped because then she had seen the rigid fury in the set of his mouth, the dark shine of his eyes.

He took her wrist. He smiled at her and his nails dug into her skin.

She moaned softly, “Oh, don’t, Roy. Don’t!”

He let go of her and the blood stood where his nails had been. “We’ll go now,” he said quietly.

Alicia watched Roy’s straight back as he walked away from the booth. She turned back to Matt and shuddered.

“He frightens me, Matt,” she said.

He smiled. “What can he do, honey? Besides, he wasn’t ever in love with you. It’s just that your name is Crane and your ancestors gave their name to the town where he was born. He’s driven by demons, that lad. He’s the original teapot tempest. Now, let’s settle down while you tell me how nice a guy I am, Alicia.”

The conductor stuck his head into the coach and said, “Cranesbay in five minutes.” Matthew Otis turned from the window where he had been staring out at the memories of nine years before.

Fear was Alicia’s face outside the train window, looking at him. Fear was Alicia’s voice, repeated in a thousand dreams. Fear was the small city of Cranesbay, waiting in the darkness ahead.

Gradually the train slowed, the wheels clicking in slower cadence. Lights began to flash by the windows, and at last the train rocked wearily into the dingy station, the soot-smeared platform roofs damp in the feeble glow of the naked bulbs.

He buttoned his topcoat, walked awkwardly up the aisle, his big suitcase thudding against the seats.

The wind that touched his face as he stepped down onto the platform was the cool breath of Cranesbay. Dampness and the sea. Night, rain and the sea. The station was a square ugly room with a white tiled floor, a smell of coffee and rest rooms.

A drunk sat on one of the benches, mumbling eternal truths which no one would remember. Behind the ticket window a sallow man in a green eyeshade was reading a magazine.

It was as though he had never been away.

The Ocean Bay Hotel, six blocks from the ocean, was but two blocks from the station. He walked it, with the moisture, half rain, half mist, beading his face.

The lobby was empty. Behind the desk a man in a gray smock placed the registration card on the counter, read the upside-down handwriting with practiced ease.

“Ah, Mr. Otis!” he said, rubbing chubby hands together. “We wondered if you’d have time to visit Cranesbay.”

Matt looked at him in sudden surprise. He had begun to think of himself as having no interest for anyone in Cranesbay.

“Oh!” he said. “There was something in the papers?”

“Two columns, Mr. Otis. A review of your new book and sort of a biography and a little about your work in China.” He laughed. “You’ve become one of Cranesbay’s favorite sons, Mr. Otis. I can give you a nice suite on the eighth-floor corner. You can see the ocean from there.”

Matt said, “Fine. Thank you.”

A lean, yawning bellhop materialized and the desk clerk handed him the key. The bellhop ran the elevator, left it with the door open while he carried the bag down to the suite.

When he was alone, Matt took off his coat and hat, turned out the lights, flung the window up and stood looking toward the sea.

He could hear the distant whisper of the surf against the rocks. It made the same noise as it had on that night long ago when...

He grew conscious of the sound of the sea and thought at first that he was in his bed and he wondered why the sea should sound so loud. A storm? He lay with his eyes closed, listening to its muted thunder, gradually feeling the beginning of the pain.

The pain crept slowly over him, and he wondered almost objectively if the pain would pass some mystic boundary where he could no longer remain motionless, but must thrash about and scream.

His cheek was against wetness. He grew conscious of being fully dressed. He opened his eyes, moved his fingers about. He could see nothing. His hand touched grass, a twig, small stones.

The pain came back and part of it was above his ear. He touched it, felt the huge lump, the opened gash across it. The rest of the pain was in his hips, his loins. He touched his hip with his fingers, felt the unfamiliar shape. Distortion.

I am hurt, he thought with sudden surprise. I am on the ground and I am hurt. My body is the wrong shape.

When the pain came back the third time, it dragged him down into darkness.

When he awakened, the pain was not so bad. The cold numbed him. He reached out and his hand brushed against something that was soft and like ice. He tried to identify it, but his hand was too numbed. With infinite effort he rolled onto his hand, warming it with his body.

At last, the warmed hand outstretched, he traced with gentle fingers the outline of brow, the gentle arch of nose, the softness of lips. When he touched the eye, the lid was up, and his finger rested for a moment on the naked eyeball, feeling the moistness, feeling no quiver.

It was then that he screamed for the first time...

Feeling enormously weary, Matthew Otis turned away from the window and switched on the light. All of the strain that had gradually increased since the day he had walked up the gangplank at Hong Kong seemed to break within him, leaving him impossibly weary.

He pulled off his clothes, flung them carelessly aside and dropped onto the soft bed, the light still shining. Down into sleep, down into vast sleep...

He had told General Soong that the position was bad. The Honorable 21st Division had dug in on the forward slope of the hill. During the long, hot, dusty morning the artillery attached to the 8th Route Army had marched up the slope, pounding across the shallow holes, the places scooped in the earth, while from beyond the crest their own artillery answered. To his right a fragment caught a Chinese soldier in the throat. With a strange bubbling scream the man plunged up out of the hole, ran in a staggering, blundering stride down the slope to fall at last, rolling to a stop.

During a lull in the shelling, two men crept out and stripped the corpse. At noon the body had begun to bloat.

Far down on the plain they began to advance. The small slow figures of the soldiers of the 8th Route Army. Seeking shelter behind the rocks that littered the slope. Coming constantly closer.

Near dusk they were within rifle shot. At a signal they burst from cover, running up the slope, their faces showing the strain of fear and effort.

Then he saw her. She was running through the dusk. She was naked. Her long hair fell, golden and shining, down her back. She smiled as she ran toward him, and her voice, echoing, was saying, “Matthew, darling! Matthew Otis!”

He jumped up and screamed at them to stop shooting at her. But his voice was gone and the scream came as a soft whisper. He wanted to run to her, to drag her out of danger. But he could not move.

Even as she leaped over the naked body of the bloated soldier he saw the slugs write a wavering message across her white body. She came toward him in a stumbling run, falling as the dusk turned to night.

He reached out a hand in the darkness, traced the line of brow, the arch of nose, his fingertip resting for a moment on the unquivering eyeball.

“You’re dead, Alicia,” he said softly.

“That’s right, Matt. Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead...”

He woke with a start, his body wet with perspiration. He felt weak and nervous. He padded into the bathroom, and stood under the shower, trying to wash away the memory of the dream.

In 1872 James Furnivall, blacksmith, walked into the village of Cranesbay. Three days later he had set up his shop. He was twenty years old.

Sixteen years later his only son, Roger Furnivall, was born. In 1908 James, then fifty-six, and his son, then twenty, enlarged the shop to take care of repairs for those new gadgets called automobiles.

When Roger was thirty, he married a Boston girl named Patricia Bowen and incorporated the company as the Furnivall Pneumatic Tool Company. It covered an entire city block, having acquired nearly two million in war contracts.

In 1927 Roger’s father died one week before Patricia died in childbirth, leaving Roger with two daughters. One four, named Patience, and one infant, named Susan.

In 1948, at nine o’clock in the morning after Matthew Otis’ return, Patience Furnivall stood in her bedroom and looked toward the sea. To her left she could see the Furnivall Pneumatic Tool Company. Beyond it were the shining steel threads of railroad sidings. Beyond the sidings was the ocean. On the horizon a coastwise vessel made a gray pattern of smoke.

The plant buildings were old, badly in need of repairs. The recent war years had not been profitable. She and Evan Cleveland, plant manager, had made a bad guess on equipment purchases.

She sighed and turned away from the window. The maid knocked quietly at her door and said, “Mr. Bedford is in the sun room, Miss Furnivall.”

She took a quick glance in the mirror, neither approving nor disapproving what she saw. She saw a tall woman of twenty-five. Tall and pale with black hair drawn back so tightly that it gave her high-cheekboned face almost an Oriental look. Her lips were full and warm, the only spot of color in her face.

Here it is, she thought. Just walk downstairs and sell out something that started when my grandfather walked into this town with a pack on his back and a sledge in his hand. I can remember him. Tall and strong and straight until the day he died. If only Dad had lived as long as he did. The war killed Dad. Sixteen hours a day in the plant killed him. Square your shoulders, Patience. Go smiling down the stairs and sell your birthright to Roy Bedford.

As she walked toward the sun room and caught sight of Roy Bedford, she felt the quick rise of hate. He was so sure of himself. So positive. So determined.

He jumped up and took her hand. “Hello, Patience. Nice to see you alone like this.”

She smiled, sat on the couch, and he sat across from her. She knew she was supposed to bring up the question first. That would give him some sort of an edge.

“What’s your proposition, Roy?” she asked bluntly.

Studying the glowing end of his cigarette, he said, “You’ve passed every dividend since the war. The forty thousand shares of stock outstanding have an over-the-counter value of twenty dollars a share. That’s thirty dollars under par. You and your sister own twenty-two thousand shares — eleven apiece. I own or control seventeen thousand three hundred and forty-one shares. It’s only a question of time until I get hold of the remaining six hundred and fifty-nine outstanding. You and your sister vote against me, giving me no hand in management.

“I have two propositions. If you and your sister will sell me fifteen hundred shares apiece, I will give you seventy-five thousand dollars each, or a bonus of forty-five thousand dollars each over market value, permitting each of you to retain ninety-five hundred shares each. The other alternative is to buy you out completely, and frankly I’d rather do that. It will take me six months to get the actual money, but I will pay you half a million apiece for all your stock. That’s two hundred thousand dollars over the present market value of the stock. That could be invested so as to give both you and Susan a life income of twenty thousand apiece.”

Patience smiled. “You make it sound so generous, Roy. You offer us a million for what we could have got three million for four years ago.”

“That was four years ago, Pat. I’m offering you a million for what you can get half a million for a year from now.”

“Evan doesn’t think so.”

“Evan is a dreamer, Pat. He’ll be out five minutes after I get the controlling interest.”

“Aren’t you a little hard, Roy?”

He smiled broadly. “Pat, I didn’t parlay a one-third interest in a little repair garage into big money in nine years by being soft. I’ll put my own men in. If this new line of hammers and special tools that Evan has developed is any good, we’ll take over. If not, we’ll toss it out.”

“It’s a good line, Roy. If we could only—”

“—get the steel. I know. You buy the gray-market steel and the increased cost bumps your production cost so high you can’t make money.”

“And you can?” she asked, smiling crookedly.

He lifted his chin. “Of course I can!”

She said slowly, “I’d like to sell out, Roy—”

“It’s a deal?” he asked eagerly.

She shook her head. “But I don’t want to do it this way. I don’t want to be licked. I don’t think Dad and Gramps care if I decide not to run the company, but I don’t think they would like to see me quit while I’m behind.”

Bedford smiled confidently. “Pat, that’s why you can’t ever make any money. You’re too sentimental.”

“Come back in six months, Roy. We’ll talk about it again.”

His face turned pale with anger. He jumped up and said, “These things don’t work that way, Miss Furnivall. I’m warning you. This offer is going to be good for exactly one week. Unless I get a decision at the end of that time, you may get a lot of surprises.”

She looked at him calmly. “You wouldn’t be threatening me, Roy?”

“I’ll make it my business to run that shabby little outfit of yours right into the ground and you right along with it!”

“Please get out of this house,” she said.

His mouth twisted in a humorless grin. “Polite even when you’re sore, hey? Sure, I’ll get out. But you better come around on your knees before the week is up.”

She stood up slowly and said distinctly, “Mr. Bedford, I don’t have to wait a week. I’ll tell you now. The Furnivall Pneumatic Tool Company will go into receivership rather than make any such deal with you. Good-by.”

“I suppose you think you’re talking for Susan, too?”

He didn’t wait for her to answer. The door slammed behind him and Patience stood leaning against the hallway door, weak and trembling.

He had defeated her. Through Susan.

Susan will see through him, she thought. She must!

That was the weak link. Susan. Gay, reckless Susan, who did not share her feeling of family pride in the name of Furnivall.

She called the plant, got hold of Evan Cleveland. She told him that she’d be down in a half hour to discuss something of importance...

Evan Cleveland had been in the same high school graduating class as Roy Bedford and Matt Otis. At the time of Alicia Crane’s death, Evan was just finishing his third year of engineering. He started out at Furnivall running a bank of automatic screw machines, eventually functioning as troubleshooter, assistant foreman, foreman, second assistant to the plant superintendent and finally, after the death of Roger Furnivall, factory manager.

He was short, broad, quick and naturally cheerful. He had red hair touched with gray, freckles across his pug nose and calm blue eyes with a glint of humor in their depths.

After Patience had finished telling him about the conversation with Bedford, he leaned back in his chair and glared at the papers on his desk.

“I did do right, didn’t I?” Patience asked.

“That’s just it, Pat. I don’t know. Yesterday I would have said yes. Today I don’t know.”

“What’s the trouble?” she asked, alarmed.

“Yesterday we were pretty sure of getting a hundred and fifty tons of steel at a price that wasn’t too bad. It would arrive by next Wednesday. But another bidder sneaked in and grabbed it. A week from today we’re going to either shut down or buy steel at prices that will make your eyes stand out on stalks.”

“There’s more than that,” she said, suddenly calm.

He stood up, walked over to the window and looked down at the plant yard, his blunt hands knotted behind him.

“You’re right, as usual, Pat.” He sighed. “Got a phone call this morning. A man named Feeney in Rochester, New York, is bringing suit against us for patent violation. The whole line of stuff we’re working on. Claims he had it first.”

“But I thought your patents were unchallenged!” she said.

“The courts will have to decide that. They may slap an injunction on us to keep us from turning out any of the new line.” He turned around suddenly and she saw that he looked old. “Pat,” he said, “I’ve an idea that if Roy Bedford didn’t have his eye on this place, we would have got our steel. Also, Roy owns a piece of Delansey Tool in Rochester. This guy Feeney worked for Delansey. You figure it out.”

She frowned. “Can he do that to us?”

Evan Cleveland gave her a tired grin. “Honey, he’s doing it. And you know as well as I do that if it doesn’t work this way, he’ll get us through Susan, marrying her if he has to, to get control of her stock. That boy is dynamite.”

“I’d better talk to Susan,” she said.

“Or take Bedford’s offer.”

She smiled with an effort. “Evan, if I took his offer now, I’d never again be able to think of my ancestors without blushing.”

She smiled at him and left his office.

Evan Cleveland sat down, rolling a yellow pencil between his blunt fingers.

Maybe it would be a good thing if she fights him, he thought. Maybe it would be a good thing if she loses every dime in the world. Maybe then I’d have the courage to tell her that I’ve loved her ever since the day she fell out of the pear tree and broke her wrist and didn’t cry.

The pencil cracked suddenly, with a loud snap. In a quiet tone he called Roy Bedford every name he could think of.

The phone rang and he picked it up. A voice said, “Evan?”

“Speaking. Who is it?”

“Your favorite correspondent in the Chinese armies, chum.”

“Matt!” he yelled. “Where are you? Are you in town? When can you come over?”

“Slow down, boy. It’s ten minutes to noon. We’ll have lunch together in the grill of the Ocean Bay — unless you’ve got other plans. You can find me at the bar.”

“A deal,” he said, hearing Matt’s laugh, then the click of the line.

Standing at the bar of the Ocean Bay, Matthew Otis watched the man mix a martini. Evan Cleveland should be along in a few minutes. He hoped that no one would recognize him before Evan arrived. He wanted to think. The ghosts were thick in the bar. Over there, at the corner table, he and Alicia had sat one night. She had broken a date with Roy Bedford to be with him.

A heavy man with white hair and a yellowed face walked in, stood at the end of the bar and glanced incuriously at Matthew before ordering a drink.

It was a face out of the past. The man with the white hair was John Bernard, coroner.

The coroner’s jury had returned a verdict of accidental death. Bernard had wanted more than that...

“Dr. Green, please describe the injuries suffered by the deceased.”

“The car, driven by Otis here, was a convertible. Both occupants were thrown clear when the car overturned the first time. The deceased was thrown clear in such a way that the handle which fastens the top tore her throat open. She bled to death in seconds, as the carotid artery was completely severed.”

“You have treated Mr. Otis?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Describe his injuries, please.”

“Thigh broken near the hip joint. Pelvis crushed. Bad concussion. He was thrown clear but the car evidently rolled over him on its way down the slope.”

“He sustained no permanent injury?”

“We can’t tell as yet. That cast you see on him can be taken off in another month. He’ll be confined to that chair for some time, however. The concussion has destroyed all memory of the accident.”

“Could alcohol have the same effect?”

“Yes. It would be possible. When the percentage of alcohol in the blood reaches a certain tolerance, memory is often impaired.”

“Thank you, Dr. Green. Call the next witness, please...”

“Your name and occupation?”

“Anthony Dorio. I’m a waiter at the Ocean Club.”

“You served the deceased and Mr. Otis on the night of the accident?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How many drinks did Mr. Otis have?”

“I think it was five.”

“Do you know?”

“Not for sure. It was at least five.”

“Was he drunk when he left there?”

“I wouldn’t say he was drunk. He was happy.”

“Happy? What degree of intoxication does that indicate?”

“Just happy, sir. Laughing, kidding with the girl and tipping me a whole buck when he left...”

“Your name and occupation, sir?”

“Stanley Hoornbeck, highway engineer.”

“You have looked over the site of the fatal accident?”

“I have.”

“Would you please describe it.”

“Halfway between the Ocean Club and Cranesbay, the road goes up over the hills, because there the hills reach to the waterline. The road climbs around two sharp curves, then straightens out. There is a long straight stretch with a ten percent grade, a three-lane road with a sharp drop of about seventy feet off the right side. Since the road is straight at that point, there is no guardrail on the right. The skid marks were still on the road, hadn’t been washed off by the rain. Otis apparently drove toward the edge, then jammed on the brakes too late and went on over...”

“Matthew Otis, sir. Unemployed. I’d just got out of college when—”

“We don’t need explanations. Tell us what you remember of that night.”

“I remember sitting in the booth and talking to — to Alicia. After that, nothing.”

“You were drunk, then?”

“No, sir. I was not drunk. I was hit on the head and—”

“Do you have any idea why you drove off the road?”

“No, sir. I can’t understand it. Dr. Green says it may come back someday and I’ve been trying—”

“Limit yourself to answering the questions, Otis. What was your relationship to the deceased?”

“We were going to be married.”

“Had you quarreled that night?”

“No, sir...”

At last he sat in the wheelchair and looked into the yellowed face as the coroner said:

“Matthew Otis, you have heard the verdict of accidental death. My hands are tied. But my opinion, sir, is that you are a murderer. Your intent makes no difference. This girl died through an act of yours. You have caused her parents, her friends and, I hope, yourself immeasurable sorrow. According to Dr. Green, you will walk again. It would not be too heavy a cross for you to bear, in my estimation, if you never walked again.

“Possibly, you would have lonely hours in which to sit and think of Alicia Crane, great-granddaughter of the founder of this city. You could think long of this girl, brutally killed in the flush of youth. When you killed her, Matthew Otis, you killed her potential children and children’s children.

“It is obvious that if you were not drinking, she would be alive today and you would not be facing me. I do not envy you, Matthew Otis...”

Matthew Otis turned suddenly at the rough grasp on his arm and stared down into the smiling face of Evan Cleveland. They shook hands warmly and exchanged the customary banalities.

It was only after Evan had ordered his drink and they had carried them over to a table that Matt noticed the lines of strain in Evan’s usually cheerful face. Evan said, “I ought to be thrilled sitting right here with a national figger.”

“Lay off!”

“No, in an unpleasant sort of way, I mean it. How long are you staying?”

“Maybe two days. Maybe two weeks.”

“You ever have any trouble from getting smashed up the way you did before you left, Matt?” Direct mention of the accident reminded them both of the death of Alicia, and put constraint on the easy conversation.

“I got around on crutches for over a year. Nowadays I can tell when it’s going to rain, and that’s about all. Stop quizzing me and give me the pitch on the locals. How’s the Furnivall girls?”

“Lush and wealthy, as usual. Pat worked like a fool at the plant after her father died. Things haven’t been going too well there. Susan came home from Wellesley last year. She doesn’t take any interest in the place so long as she can keep her purse full of cash.”

“You married, Evan?”

“No. You?”

“No. How’s Roy Bedford?”

“Obnoxious. In forty he eased into that garage deal as sole owner. By the end of forty he’d put in machine tools and had a contract from the British Purchasing Commission. He plowed the money back in and went way into hock to build a big plant south of town. Aircraft parts. With the dough from that, he has a finger in every pie all up and down the coast and some interest in distant pies. Knitting in the sunny South. A foundry in Buffalo. A tool works in Rochester. I guess he’s still coining dough. He bought the old Crane house on Perkins Street. Alicia’s folks went out to California the year after she died.”

“Did he marry that girl he was running around with when I left?”

“Rose Carney? No. He’s fixed her up with a nice little beach house about three miles out of town. He entertains out there. She makes a good hostess. She’s thinned down and she acts like a lady. She’s kept up with our boy Roy all right.”

“How about Maura Gissing?”

“Her? Oh, sure. You went around with her before you got engaged to Alicia. She’s still in town. A widow. She married a boy named Barton who got killed overseas during the war. She works in the phone company and is active in civic affairs. No kids.”

“I might look her up.”

“Oh, so you came back to pick a wife?”

“Relax, boy. I’ve got no time for wives.”

“Got yourself all lined up with some Chinese talent, hey?”

During lunch Evan told him about the current problems of the Furnivall Company, told how anxious Roy Bedford was to get his hands on it.

His face a mask of despair, Evan said, “What I can’t understand is why he should want the outfit. He’s got enough irons in the fire.”

Matt sipped his coffee, then said, “The pattern is pretty clear, Evan. Roy was the kid that everybody expected would end up like his old man. Look at him now. At thirty-two he’s one of the biggest guys in town. Who were the two top families when he was a kid? The Cranes and the Furnivalls. Now he lives in the Crane house. He won’t completely justify himself until he controls the Furnivall Company.”

Evan smiled tiredly and said, “It’s pretty tough to combat a psychosis — with dough behind it. I wish I knew what to do.”

“Can you fight?”

“Pat wants to fight. She’s got an ancestor complex about the plant. And she hates Bedford and everything he stands for. But our working capital is scraping bottom. If we have to close down, it will just about force us under.”

“What will happen to you, Evan?”

“Oh, I’ll start punching somebody else’s time clock.”

“I wish I could help you,” Matt said.

Evan frowned, stirred the dregs of his coffee. Matt, looking toward the door, saw Roy Bedford come in, following a young girl. She was quite tall and looked oddly like Patience Furnivall. But there was more life and exuberance to her. Her eyes were brighter, her mouth larger. She walked with an air of vitality and health, smiling back over her shoulder at Roy Bedford.

“Here’s your problem,” Matt said softly.

Evan looked back and then stared at Matt, consternation plain on his face.

“That’s nice!” he said. “That’s Susan Furnivall.”

Roy Bedford had changed little in nine years. His crisp dark hair had receded a bit, but the sharp, vital features were the same; the eyes, set far apart, had that same opaque, bland look. He was well dressed and had an air of confidence.

Matt saw him glance toward the table, say something to Susan, and they came over. Evan stood up as Matt did. Roy Bedford said, “Well, hello there, Matt! Heard you were in town.”

“You must have your spies out,” Matt said.

“I keep track of things. This is Susan Furnivall, Matt. Hello, Evan.”

Susan sighed. “You were one of my heroes, Mr. Otis. When I was in the fifth grade you were on the football team in high school. I cut your picture out of the paper and slept with it under my pillow for months. Hello, Evan.”

“I can’t live up to that buildup, Susan. How’s Patience?”

“The female industrialist? Grim. Why don’t you drop out and see her? The way I lost that picture, she took it away from me and it ended up under her pillow.”

“You had quite an effect on the whole family,” Roy said. “Well, see you around. Drop up to the house for a drink if you have time.”

They walked off and took a table in the corner.

“She owns eleven thousand shares of Furnivall stock,” Evan said. “She’s young and pretty. It’s time Roy got married. That would be the easy way for him to beat Pat.”

“You’re dreaming up trouble for yourself,” Matt said.

“Am I? Take a look over there when you get a chance.”

As they left, Matt looked back. Susan was leaning toward Roy, her face animated and eager, her eyes soft. Her fingers rested lightly on Roy’s wrist...

Susan took her hand away as the waiter approached. She ordered and, as Roy studied the menu, she thought of Matthew Otis. There was such a tremendous gap between the dreams of childhood and the actualities of an adult.

Matthew Otis had always been young, laughing, surrounded with sort of a shining halo of success. There were two males named Matthew Otis. One was forever back on the green field, leaping high in the air to catch the long pass, running with the ball while the cheering section screamed. The new Matthew Otis was a heavy man with a brown face and an impassive look.

She looked at Roy. Roy was different. She had gradually begun to think of him in one of those odd curved helmets that the Spaniards had worn when they sought gold in the New World. He had a look of lean cruelty that awakened something deep inside her. Something exciting.

“That’s a very unflattering expression, Susan,” he said. “You look as though you expected me to reach over and hit you.”

“You’re a conquistador,” she said.

All expression left his face. He said softly, “That’s not bad, Sue. Not bad at all. They came here in the sixteenth century and took over. And that’s what I’m doing.”

“You frighten me sometimes. You know, I didn’t expect you to know what a conquistador was.”

He was suddenly angry. “You college snobs! You got it in nice airy classrooms. I got it at night. And I got a lot more than you did.”

She laughed. “A sore point?”

His anger faded. “Sure, kitten. Why do I frighten you?”

She took time to pick the right words. “When I was a little girl I used to go in the plant with Dad. There was a room with a concrete floor and in the room there was a huge machine that nearly touched the ceiling. It had a big hammer thing in it that used to come down with a thud that you could feel against your feet. I used to think that nothing in the world could stop that machine. It was ruthless and relentless. It used to scare me and I used to hold Dad’s hand so tightly that he’d laugh at me. But every minute, I wanted to run to where it came down and be smashed to nothing.”

He smiled crookedly. “Not too flattering, kitten.”

“You don’t care about me as a person, Roy,” she said softly.

“Don’t be silly!”

“Oh, I know. I’m young and healthy and clean and I dress well. But this is just a big deal for you.”

“Big deal?”

“Sure. I know how you operate. You want me because along with a nice clean young girl to wife, you’ll get control of the company. The daily double.” There was scorn in her voice.

He looked at her steadily. “That’s exactly the way it is. And there isn’t a thing you can do about it. Your dad isn’t around to hold your hand so you won’t jump into the drop forge. It’s just a question of how long before you jump.” He reached out and his fingers were tight and hard on her wrist. She looked into his eyes and all the rest of the room faded into mist, with just those eyes the only thing visible to her.

She felt her breath come fast. Then he leaned back in his chair and smiled at her. The room swam back into focus.

“I think I hate you,” she said softly.

“That’s a strong enough emotion, kitten. That will do.”

The food came, but she had lost her appetite. She wanted to disturb his calm confidence. She said, “Rose Carney will hardly be pleased, Roy.”

He took a sip of water. He said, “Rose Carney does, thinks and believes what I tell her to do, think and believe. I will tell her to be glad about this.”

“And you will tell her to pack her undies and take a train ride to California, Roy. Without forwarding address.”

His face was blank. Then he smiled brilliantly. “You know, kitten, you have possibilities! Okay. Rosie gets a one-way ticket. The dough I get for the beach house will give her a going-away present.”

“And you will be nice to Pat.”

The smile went away. “Don’t push your luck, Susan. Your stately sister isn’t like us.”

Susan said with anger, “You shouldn’t say that!” But she knew that, deep down, she resented Patience and had never admitted it to her conscious mind.

Matthew Otis walked through the growing chill of dusk up the hill that led to the Furnivall home. He tried to analyze his interest in Bedford’s attempt to take over the Furnivall Company, because the real reason he had returned to Cranesbay was to rid himself of the ghost of Alicia Crane. Her dream image had grown stronger over the years, making the daylight hours into unreality, making night the only reality — night when he could hear the silver tones of her voice.

He had intended to rent a car. He hadn’t driven an automobile since that night. He had intended to drive to the Ocean Club each night until there was a rainy, misty night like the night when she had died.

He would then drive over that same road, possibly park and climb down over the rocks to where his smashed body had lain. A lonely vigil and then, in the gray of dawn, a visit to her grave. Her ghost would be appeased. Or he would find out why she returned in his dreams.

He had imagined that by reliving that night, memory might return. The doctors had said that in most concussion cases, the direct memory of the events immediately preceding the accident is wiped out, to return gradually over months, or even years. In his case, there had been no return of memory. Maybe if he could remember...

He was afraid to relive that night. He had seized on Evan’s difficulties as an excuse to keep from reliving that night. Even this visit to Patience Furnivall was an attempt to delay the moment when he would drive up that lonely mountain road toward the scene of death.

The Furnivall house was Victorian, its unlovely lines concealed by elms. Patience opened the door when he rang the bell. “Matt!” she said, warmth and greeting in her voice. “Evan told me you were in town. It’s so nice to see you again. Come in.”

She clicked on the lights in the small study. The room was warm and pleasant, and peopled with shadows of long ago when Matthew Otis and his younger brother had been brought to the big house by his parents. He had been twelve, full of scorn for six-year-old Patience, barely aware of the existence of Susan. The study held the same smell of furniture polish and leather bindings. The small pane in the breakfront was still cracked from the time that Pat had thrown the book at him.

They sat and looked at each other. There was no tension in their silence. Pat had turned into an interesting-looking woman. Rather severe, with her dark hair pulled back so tightly. She had dignity.

As she grew older she would retain her looks, her quiet eyes, her air of warmth.

“It’s good to see you, Pat,” he said quietly.

“You’ve changed a great deal, Matt. You’ve entirely lost that long-legged colty look you had. That Airedale puppy look.”

“You aren’t exactly in rompers, Pat. Let me see. When I left, you were sixteen. You wore dirty white shoes and ankle socks and your legs were too thin.”

She excused herself. He sat in the small comfortable room feeling at peace with the world. She came back with martinis and said, “One of the advantages of being famous, Matt. I read in a biographical sketch in a magazine that you like martinis.”

He lifted his drink, said, “To the Furnivall Company, Pat.”

She drank with him, said wryly, “That’s about all we can do to help it, Matt. Drink to it. Evan said he gave you the complete picture.”

He stared down into his drink. “The old order changeth, Pat. If your grandpop were alive, he’d know how to handle it. We’re too soft. Psychopaths like Roy Bedford are inheriting the earth. The age of industrial piracy has begun. It got its start in the black market, gained strength through war surplus and is fattening on shortages.”

“I want to fight him,” she said.

He was surprised at the deadly earnestness of her tone.

She smiled. “I guess I sounded pretty grim then. But it’s the way I feel. I could cheerfully shoot him. Oh, it isn’t that he’s an upstart. I’m not being a snob, Matt. It’s just that he’s a homegrown fascist. If he gained his ends through work, that would be fine. But he’s ruthless and clever and crooked.”

“I’d like to help, if you can think of a way,” he said.

She sighed. “There isn’t enough time. With time we might prove that he has interfered with our steel deliveries, that he is financing a nuisance suit against us. It might give us the basis for a damage suit.”

She tilted her head as the front door slammed. Then Susan walked in, her face flushed from the chill, her eyes bright.

She saw Matt and said, “Well! You do get around, Mr. Otis! What’s the subject of conversation? How to save the mighty Furnivall interests?”

“If you thought more of the mighty Furnivall interests, Susan, you might be able to help us,” Patience said quietly.

“Oh, wake up!” Susan said with annoyance. “You’ve got an industrialist complex. Why don’t you let Roy take over? Maybe he’d make some money for us. All you and Evan do is put us further and further in hock.”

“Susan!” Patience snapped.

“Well, it’s true. And brace yourself, sister mine. I’ve got another little shock for you. I’m going upstairs and pack. In half an hour Roy is picking me up. We’re going to fly down to Maryland and be married. He told me to tell you that the plant will get the steel and that some man has dropped some sort of a suit against the company.”

Matt was looking at Patience. She had been sitting very straight, her cheeks flushed with anger. The flush faded and her shoulders slumped. She buried her face in her hands and whispered, “Oh, Susan! How could you?”

Susan had the grace to blush. She said, “You’ll get over it.”

She left the room. Matt heard her running steps on the stairs, the slam of an upstairs door. There was no sound in the study except Patience crying.

He went over to her and put his hand on her shoulder. She lifted a tear-streaked face and said, “But the man is — ruthless! She’ll — never be happy. Never!”

Matthew realized that it was an indication of Pat’s character that she was weeping, not over a battle lost, but over the emotional mistake Susan was making.

He frowned. “Mind if I go up and talk to her, Pat?”

“It won’t do any good. You don’t know how stubborn she is. Her room is the second one on the left from the head of the stairs.”

Matt knocked on Susan’s door. “Who is it?” she called.

“Matt Otis, Sue.”

“Go away. I’m in a terrible rush.”

“I want to talk to you. It’s important.”

After a long silence she said, “Okay.” She opened the door. The pleasant bedroom was brightly lighted. Two open suitcases were on the bed, half packed.

He offered her a cigarette, lighted it for her. “Make it fast,” she said. “If Pat thinks you can talk me out of this, you’ve both got holes in the head.”

He smiled. “I wouldn’t think of talking you out of it, Sue. This is a great opportunity for you. Everything you want. Money, position. Everything.”

“Are you being sarcastic?” she asked, frowning.

“Not at all. You’re a beautiful girl. I don’t blame Roy for falling in love with you. He always did like nice things.”

He saw the shadow cross her face. She murmured, “Love is a dandy word.”

“Isn’t that what it is?”

She sat on the edge of the bed. “I wish I knew. I don’t think there’s room in his head for love. He’s an element. Like wind or fire or storm.”

“It’s that stock that bothers you, isn’t it?”

She looked up quickly. “That’s right. I keep wondering if that’s the only reason he’s going through with this. He says that he wants me, and the stock isn’t important.”

“Half a million dollars plus control of a good company is a nice dowry, Sue. Do you want to try something?”

“What kind of a something?”

“Suppose you sell your shares to your sister for the consideration of one dollar down and the balance within a year. Sell them at the market price. I’ll make out a bill of sale and witness it and we’ll get another witness. Don’t say a word of it to Roy until you get down to Maryland. Then tell him you no longer have the stock and see what happens.”

“Why not tell him right away?”

“It won’t be a good laboratory test.”

She stared up at him, stubbed out the cigarette on an ashtray on the bedside table. Her eyes narrowed. “You think he won’t go through with it.”

“What do you think?” he asked gently.

“Why did you tell me this, Matthew Otis? Now I’ve got to do it. I must know.”

“Sure you have to know, Sue.”

He went downstairs and told Patience. She brought him the writing materials and he made out a bill of sale, listing the stock certificates. Susan came downstairs and signed it, gravely accepted the dollar from Patience.

When the doorbell rang, Susan hurried to the hallway. They heard the low, familiar tones of Roy Bedford’s voice. A few minutes later a car motor started in front. Matt and Patience stood at the window and watched the car drive away.

“She won’t tell him until just before the ceremony,” Matt said.

“He’ll never go through with it.”

“Susan believes he will.”

“You know, Matt,” she said, “I can — somehow feel the effect he has on her. He’s completely unprincipled. He has the fascination that high places or snakes or great speed in a car has.”

Her voice sounded so weary that he was filled with sudden sympathy. He put his arm around her, and kissed her gently on the lips. It was meant to be a kiss which would express his sympathy. But it turned into something else entirely.

When at last they parted, her eyes were wide and shining and his breathing was shallow.

“Where — did that come from?” she asked.

“A special import from China. Always take advantage of a troubled woman.”

“Fool!” she said softly. “Let’s go tell Evan what’s happened.”

Evan stood on the sidewalk, and watched Pat’s car drive away, Pat at the wheel and Matthew Otis beside her. Even after the twin red taillights went around the corner and the sound of the motor faded he stood there, his fists so tight his knuckles hurt.

At last he shook himself like a shaggy animal aroused from sleep and trudged up the stairs to his room. He clicked on the lights and sat down on the edge of the studio couch that served him as a bed.

He looked around the room as though seeing it for the first time. A drafting table, a couple of framed diplomas, a row of texts and reference books. The wallpaper had a design of faded roses.

He ran his fingers along the stubble on his jaw. His mouth ached from smiling.

Oh, it was a gay and happy smile. All evening. See, folks? I’m your friend. I’m Evan Cleveland, the patient beast. I didn’t want to come back here to Cranesbay. I came here because she is here. I went to work in the plant because I would see her more often. I watched her with quiet adoration. As time goes by, as she is twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five — I am glad. She will be mine. I wait in fatuous complacency for her one day to recognize my great love.

Evan Cleveland, the great lover.

She is cool and calm and slim and lovely — and I thought that I was the only one who could see the fire burning brightly under that placid surface. Susan burns brightly on the surface.

And then tonight the two of them come to me and she has at last awakened. I can barely hear what they are telling me! Something about Susan and a sale of Susan’s stock. She is vivid and lovely. And then I see the way she looks at Matthew Otis. It is hard to realize that I hate Matthew Otis. But he has stolen her from me. He doesn’t know it and neither does she.

He stood up, walked to the closet and took the bottle from the top shelf. As he walked woodenly back to the couch he tore the paper wrapping from the metal top. He sat down, tilted the bottle and swallowed. The liquor burned his stomach. He tilted the bottle again. When he set it clumsily on the floor it was half full.

He put his elbows on his knees, his square hands hanging limply from his wrists. After a bit he began to rock from side to side, making a low, moaning sound.

He fell heavily to the floor. He tried to get up, then cradled his head in his arms and wept. After a long time he fell asleep...

The cockpit of the little plane was finished in blue leather. Susan sat beside Roy Bedford, the palms of her hands cold and sweaty. Roy took the small mike from the clip and talked to the tower as he circled the small field.

The lights along the runway clicked on. The little plane settled down at last, the tires making one furtive squeal as they touched the concrete.

“Four hours,” Roy said. “Not bad.”

He taxied over to the hangars. She stood off to one side, her suitcase by her feet, as he talked with a man who had appeared out of the darkness. Within minutes a car appeared. Roy climbed in beside her, groped for her hand and held it tightly as the car hurried off into the night...

The beach house had been built so that at high tide the waves crashed against the rocks ten feet below the sill of the twelve-foot pane of flawless glass that faced the sea.

During early evening the waves had grown bigger. At midnight, the big swells punched the rocks with solid force, sending spray up to run down the huge window. With an impulse that she but vaguely understood, Rose Carney had put on a white strapless evening gown. Her bare white shoulders were perfect.

The Capehart thundered the bass in the Debussy La Mer. She had it turned too high. Tall candles shone with motionless flames. The wine was the deep color of blood.

A song of the sea. A minor chant to sadness and to the sea.

She thought of Rosie Carney of nine years back. Rosie Carney in love with Roy Bedford. Rosie Carney who had seen the strength of his incredible will, who had sensed his enormous drive. Rosie Carney who had loved him.

But this was Rose Carney. A slim woman who drank wine by candlelight while the sea touched the rocks below her window.

He had taken everything she had from the beginning. Her individuality.

My soul, she thought, if there is such a thing. He has made me over in the image of what he has wanted. A modern-day courtesan. A woman to say the right things, do the right things, cater to the right tastes.

Somewhere along the line she had lost the essence of Rose Carney. She had become a creation of Roy Bedford. Music and words by Roy Bedford. Gowns by Bedford. Sets by Bedford. Produced by Roy Bedford, from a script by Roy Bedford, from a play by Roy Bedford, from a cheap novel by a garage mechanic named Bedford.

Aloud she said, “What will become of me?”

She knew that he had enjoyed coming to her, telling her that it was all over. She had met him at the door, had lifted her lips to be kissed.

“Not this time, Rose,” he had said, grinning at her.

She had frowned. “What do you mean, Roy?”

“Baby, you’re talking to a man about to be married. About time, don’t you think?”

For one incredible moment of joy she had thought he meant her, then had seen the look in his eyes.

“A nice young article, Rosie. Cheeks like apples and smells like a load of hay. Miss Susan Furnivall will be married tonight to Mr. Roy Bedford, and you are not cordially invited to attend the ceremony.”

“But us, Roy!”

“No problem, Rosie. You must have a nice little nest egg saved. You’re good-looking and you’ve learned a lot. Tomorrow when I get back, I’ll put this place up for sale. By then you can be at the hotel. As soon as I get a buyer, I’ll give you cash in the amount of the sale. Then you can go anywhere you please, just so long as it isn’t Cranesbay.”

It was as though she were dreaming the words. It didn’t seem possible he could be saying them. She had always thought that one day he would marry her.

“You can’t do this to me!” she had screamed. “I won’t go!”

Still smiling, he had slapped her across the mouth. She had staggered back against the wall.

“Pretty please, Rosie? Pretty please?”

When he had stepped toward her again, she had cowered back and said, “I’ll go away, Roy.”

Her answer had been the door slamming behind him, the high whine of the motor and skid of gravel as he turned out of the drive.

She lifted the glass to her puffed lips and drank deeply of the tart red wine. Holding her arms out, she turned slowly in ritual dance to the tempo of the music and the sound of the sea.

She laughed. She laughed until there was salt on her lips mingling with the taste of the wine.

Long after Matthew had left Patience Furnivall, he walked down past the hotel to the docks. Clouds hurried across the slim face of the new moon. The wind was rising and he could taste the sea on his lips. He stood with his hands shoved deep in his topcoat pockets, his head tilted, listening — to voices of long ago.

With sudden resolution, he turned away from the sea and walked back through the silent heart of the city, back toward the distant hill. It was an hour before he arrived at the cemetery. The iron gate was chained. He stepped over the low stone wall. The moon was just bright enough so that he could make out the shadowy names on the headstones.

The family of Crane had the place of honor, directly opposite the gates. The third match he lit showed him the headstone. “Alicia Belle Crane 1919–1939.” The earth was damp. He walked over to the family stone, sat on the edge of it and lit a cigarette.

Below the surface was the body of the girl who had haunted his dreams for nine years. Through all his dreams she had called to him, and it was as though she were trying to tell him something.

“What have you been trying to tell me, darling?” he asked softly.

There was no answer but the sigh of wind in the pines, the far-off whisper of the surf.

He had been afraid to come to that spot and yet, sitting there, he felt a sense of peace.

He flipped the cigarette away and stood up, enormously tired. He stepped over the wall, and walked down the hill toward the city.

Back in the hotel he took a shower and climbed into bed. He lay in the darkness, listening to the sea, thinking of Alicia...

He was back on the stone and in the silent air was the echo of his voice. He stared at the ground where she was buried.

Suddenly there was a call, a distant call — her clear, thin voice in a vast place of echoes. He jumped up, and turned. She was walking through the silent stones, with a radiance about her. She wore the white dress that she had worn at high school graduation. Her face was younger than he had remembered it.

“Matthew, darling! Matthew Otis!”

“Alicia!” he called, but as in other dreams, his voice was frozen in his throat. He turned and began to run toward her.

“What have you been trying to tell me?”

His voice was loud and clear. They were no longer in the cemetery. They were in a huge room like a railroad station. The floor felt odd and he looked down and saw that he was running on the moving belt of a treadmill. She was also on a treadmill, running in the opposite direction. They moved ever steadily apart.

“Matthew!” she called. “Matthew, darling!” Her voice was lost in a thousand echoes against the great dark ceiling.

Suddenly she stopped running, stood still and was carried off into the darkness, her figure diminishing until at last it was a tiny white glowing spot against the black horizon before it was gone altogether.

He stood in the blackness and the loneliness.

He awakened standing near the windows, cold and trembling. Exhausted, he found his way back to the bed.

Susan lay rigid in the darkness, her mind filled with loathing. Beside her, Roy Bedford stirred in his sleep and his hand touched her shoulder. With infinite care she moved further away so that he no longer touched her.

It had gone wrong. Incredibly wrong. They had stood in the small cheap parlor of the marriage mill and she had said, her voice trembling, her tone light, “By the way, Roy. I sold all my stock to Patience just before you picked me up at the house.”

His lips had drawn back from his teeth in a parody of a smile. “You what!”

“Oh, it was legal enough. Bill of sale and everything. It was Matt Otis’ idea. I suppose you don’t want to marry me now.”

He had looked at her with those unreadable eyes for long seconds. Then, while the man waiting to marry them had coughed and fussed with the book, Roy had laughed. Humorless laughter. A senseless bray that twisted his body.

When he could get his breath he said, “Matt Otis’ idea? Oh, that’s great! Yes, Susan, I want to marry you. Very much.”

The tears stood in her eyes as he fitted the ring on her finger. But his wedding kiss wasn’t tender. He had put a hard hand at the back of her neck and brought his lips down on hers with ferocity. His teeth had bruised her lips and she had gasped with the pain. When she had pushed him away, tasting the warm blood from her lip, he had laughed again. The man who still held the book was embarrassed and a bit angry. Roy had laughed at him, too, and had flung a ten-dollar bill at him. His hard fingers had bruised Susan’s arm as he led her out to the car.

He was asleep now. She felt soiled from the touch of him. She wanted to go and scrub her body, but she was afraid she would awaken him. She felt lost and young and hopeless.

It was at that moment that she began to wonder if she had the courage to kill him one day.

The bedside phone rang insistently. Matthew Otis reached up out of his sleep, lifted it from the cradle and held it to his ear. The luminous dial of his wristwatch said that it was a quarter to four.

“You’re Matt Otis?” a woman’s voice said.

“That’s right,” he mumbled. “Who is it?”

“Rosie Carney. I saw you a long time ago.” Her voice was slurred. He could imagine the loose drunken lips, the wet eyes.

“I remember you,” he said.

“I’m glad you remember me, Matt Otis. I saw you that night your girl died. She was Roy’s girl, you know.”

“Look, it’s four in the morning. What is this? A little talk about old times? Save it until tomorrow, will you?”

“Save it?” She laughed. “Sure, old Rose Carney’ll save it. For a long time. Wanted to tell you ’bout that night. Wanted to tell you Roy took me home and left me. And came back later.”

She hung up. “Hello! Hello!” he shouted.

He put the phone back on the cradle. Drunken woman. Probably went off the deep end when she heard about Susan. Talking nonsense. He went back to sleep...

Rose Carney stood in her stocking feet on the sand and looked up at the beach house. She held the bottle of wine by the neck. She could hear distant fragments of music. The night was cold, but she didn’t feel cold.

It was like waiting for something exciting to happen. She lifted the bottle and drank deeply. She threw it from her, heard it shatter on the rocks.

At last the little glow touched the windows. Breathless, she watched as it grew brighter.

All my nice clothes, she thought. All the records. They’ll melt and burn. All the wine bottles will break. Present for Roy. Li’l present for my boy Roy.

At last she could hear the crackle of the flames above the noise of the sea. The flames flickered up from the flat roof into the night air. The huge front window went and she felt the heat against her face.

“Too hot out here,” she mumbled.

She put her fingers in the neckline of the white dress, ripped it down, stepped out of it. She tore off the bra and pants and threw them aside, standing naked on the sand.

She heard the distant wail of sirens and it was like a signal she had been waiting for. She turned and walked down the slope of beach into the water. Oddly, it felt warm. As a wave smashed against her thighs she stumbled and almost fell. When it reached her waist, she began to swim straight out with a smooth crawl.

She was all-powerful. She could swim forever. She felt the lift and drop of the waves. Her body was warm, clean and strong.

After many strokes she paused and looked back at the beach house. It was a pillar of flame. Dark figures passed between her and the flame.

She floated for a long time. Then, rolling over onto her stomach, she resumed her long, strong stroke, swimming straight out into the night.

Patience met Matt at the door. She was looking lovely in a dark green dress.

“Just a minute while I get my coat,” she said.

She came back and he asked, “Do you know who’s going to be there?”

“Just you and I and Evan and the bride and groom, as far as I know,” she said. She handed him the keys. “Will you drive?”

Drive to Roy’s party at the Ocean Club. Drive on the mountain road. Oh, fine. Better let Patience drive. Better tell her that she might end up staring up at the dark sky.

He found himself reaching for the keys. He said, “I’m a little rusty.”

He got behind the wheel, took a moment to find the starter. It was a dark green coupe, fairly new.

“I never thought he’d marry her,” Patience said softly.

“Maybe it was my fault, Pat.”

“Nonsense! If he was going to marry her anyway, it’s a blessing that he doesn’t get his filthy paws on the company at the same time.”

He backed out of the garage, turned down the drive.

“Did Sue ask you or did he?” Matt asked.

“He did. I thought that a little strange. He said it was just a small intimate dinner for friends of the bride and groom. He said that Susan has particularly asked that you and I come. And Evan, of course.”

“Evan is in love with you, Pat.”

She looked at him quickly. “Don’t be absurd!”

“I think he always has been. What a tangle of emotions this little dinner party will be! And I suppose the guest of honor will be Rose Carney, who burned the house down and skipped out.”

“She got a raw deal, Matt.”

“Who doesn’t get a raw deal from the great Bedford?”

As they drove through town and turned left on the road to the Ocean Club, a fine rain started. Patience turned on the windshield wipers.

The wheel felt strange under his hands. Time had been turned back. He was going to the Ocean Club on a night like that night nine years before—

Patience reached over to the dashboard and turned on the car radio.

“...the body was identified as being a Miss Rose Carney. There is no evidence of foul play. The nude body was washed ashore early this evening near Toll Point six miles south of town. Police state that Miss Carney’s garments were found near the scene of the fire that destroyed her home last night. It is believed that Miss Carney set fire to her home and committed suicide by swimming directly out from shore.”

Patience clicked off the dial and shuddered. Her voice trembled as she said, “Another mark on Roy Bedford’s sterling record.”

Matt stared ahead and frowned. “I must have been the last living soul she talked to. If I’d known—”

“What!”

“She called me up at four this morning. I couldn’t make out what she was driving at. She was drunk.”

“Poor Rose.”

“Poor Susan,” he said.

The road climbed higher and higher. Twice he had to shift into second to ease the laboring motor. At the very top was a wide parking place, a favorite spot for sightseers and the high school group. Far ahead, down on the flats, he could see the lights of the Ocean Club. The road dipped down. It turned into the long straight stretch where, nine years before, a blond girl had lain, her sightless face turned up toward the misted sky.

His jaw ached with tension. The dark night sped by. Ahead were the sharp turns.

“It happened right along here, didn’t it?” Patience said softly.

“That’s right,” he said, amazed at the calmness of his own voice. “On a night just like this one — nine years ago.”

He pressed down on the brakes, slowed for the sharp curves and, minutes later, turned into the parking lot of the Ocean Club.

As it was an off night, there were few cars in the lot. Also, the Ocean Club trade usually arrived later than eight-thirty.

The man at the door said, “Mr. Otis? Follow me, sir.”

He led them to a stairway at the far end of the dance floor, and said, with a smile, “The room at the head of the stairs, sir.”

Matt followed Patience up the stairs. Roy, affable and urbane, met them at the door, took Patience’s coat, told Matt where to put his, then led them over to the table where Evan stood talking to Susan.

Patience kissed Susan and said, “How are you, dear?”

“Very well, thank you,” Susan said.

Matt was shocked at the change in the girl. She seemed to have lost that quality of exuberance. Her eyes were large and there were dark shadows under them. Her lips curved in a careful smile and she stood very straight.

As Evan shook hands with Matt, Roy put his arm around Susan and pulled her against him as he said, “Now isn’t she a beautiful bride?”

Matt noticed the sudden twist of Susan’s lips, the haunted eyes.

“She certainly is, Roy,” he said, with forced joviality.

“That’s right,” Evan said, matching Matt’s tone.

There was a tall shaker of martinis. Roy poured two for Patience and Matt. Evan was obviously drinking too much. Roy did not appear to be drinking. Susan sipped her drink with downcast eyes.

“A toast to the bride,” Evan said, lifting his glass.

“To the bride,” they echoed. Susan smiled her careful smile and her eyes were dead.

Roy laughed loudly. “Say, you folks thought you were pulling a fast one on me, didn’t you? Getting Susan to sell that stock of hers! What kind of a guy do you think I am? I’m going to take over that company anyway, you know. I married Sue for her sweet self.”

“You make it sound so easy, Roy,” Patience murmured. “I mean, the way you’re going to take over the company.”

His eyes showed no expression, but his smile revealed his white, even teeth. “It is easy, Pat. When you know how. How about dinner, folks? The house recommends steak or lobster.”

The round table was on for five. A fire was lit in the fireplace.

Roy sat with Susan on his right and Patience on his left. Evan sat between Patience and Matt. Susan was on Matt’s left.

The food was excellent, and Roy skillfully kept the table talk away from any personal topic. Matt was almost enjoying himself. Susan said little. Patience kept glancing across at Susan, her eyes puzzled. Evan talked loudly and expansively and, between topics, glared at Roy Bedford.

After a time Roy switched the conversation to China and Matt found himself talking about some of his experiences. Patience seemed to be the only one who gave her undivided attention.

At last there was a pause in the conversation. Patience said firmly, “It was too bad about Rose Carney, Roy.”

He frowned. “Too bad? The house was insured. She’ll get the insurance money when she shows up.”

Matt tried to warn Patience with his eyes, but she kept on. “Oh, I thought you’d heard.” Matt saw Susan’s hand tighten on her coffee spoon. “They found her body early this evening. She drowned herself.”

Susan slumped against Matt. Roy merely said, “Now that was a stupid thing to do, wasn’t it?”

Matt carried Susan over to the leather couch by the fireplace. She was unconscious. Evan rubbed her wrists while Patience swabbed her forehead with a wet napkin.

Roy said in a low tone to Matt, “She seems a bit upset. I think I’ll run her home. I was going to get her back early anyway. Excitement, you know.”

He bent over Susan as her eyes opened. She looked up at him without recognition, and then her eyes narrowed.

“Get away from me!” she said in a low tone. Low and deadly.

It made no dent on Roy Bedford. He said, “You’re a little upset, darling. Come on. I’ll take you home.” The calm assumption of authority overcame Susan’s momentary revolt.

Roy got her coat and helped her into it. “There’s no reason to break up this little party,” he said. “All Susan needs is rest. I’ve ordered some decent brandy for after dinner. You folks stay around and we’ll be with you in spirit.”

He and Susan went down the stairs together. Evan sat down heavily, suddenly quite drunk, and said, “Come on, folks. Cheer up! This is a party. Remember? A big celebration.”

“That’s right, Evan,” Patience said.

They finished the coffee and the waiter came in with the brandy.

Patience pounded lightly on the table with her fist and said, “What has he done to her? What on earth has he done to her?”

“Acts dead,” Evan said.

“Exactly,” Matt added. “Just as though he had cut the heart right out of her. Did you see how meekly she went along?”

“She’s frightened of him,” Pat said, as though discovering a great truth.

After that they sat and talked of Roy Bedford, of Susan’s future, until the fire burned low and Evan put his head down on the table and began to snore softly.

Matt moved over beside Patience, put gentle fingers under her chin, tilted her face up and kissed her. It worked the same magic as before.

“You look different,” he said softly.

“I’ve felt different. All day. I’ve felt as though all the problems I’ve had have belonged to someone else.”

“In my own way,” Matt said, “I’m being as unfair to you as Roy is to Susan.”

“How do you mean that?”

“I came back here to get rid of a ghost with golden hair. Alicia. She’s been in my dreams for nine years. She won’t stay dead. She tries to tell me something. At last she drove me back here. I’ve got to be honest with you, Patience. You’re something very rare and very sweet. Maybe I’m in love with you. I don’t know. But Alicia has been very close to me for nine years. The only time she is really away from me is when I kiss you.”

She looked at Matt for long moments, her eyes brimming. “That’s good enough for me, Matt,” she whispered.

“Has it happened to you this quickly, too?” he asked.

“Stupid! It happened to me back in those days when I wore the filthy white shoes and the ankle socks and my legs were too thin. It happened when I took your picture away from Susan a million years ago. I knew you’d come back. I knew it!”

Suddenly they both looked at Evan and began to smile. He looked so peaceful, the lines of strain ironed out.

Matt said, “I hate to wake him up.”

“Why do it, then? They don’t close until four. It’s just a little after midnight now. We can get him over to the couch and he can get some rest. He’s got his car and after some sleep he’ll be in shape to drive. We can tell the manager.”

Evan, half awake, blundered across the room and fell on the leather couch with a sigh of relief. Matt clicked the lights out and, holding Pat’s hand tightly, walked down the stairs with her.

The manager nodded with quick understanding and said, “Certainly, sir. We’ll wake him up when we’re ready to close. He’ll be all right then, I’m sure.”

They walked out into the parking lot and he saw the mist form in shining droplets on her dark hair. The sound of the sea was a whisper in their ears. He reached for her as they stood by the small green car. She came into his arms with a small purring sound.

After a moment she said, “Don’t we know enough to get in out of the rain?”

“You drive,” he said.

She looked up into his face, her head tilted on one side. “Scared?”

“Maybe.”

“Then you drive.”

“But, Pat, it was a night just like this. The same place, the same road. Now that I’ve found you, I can’t take a chance on it happening again. Ever.”

“You drive,” she said.

“But I can’t remember what happened that night. I can’t remember what I did! For all I know, I’ve got some compulsion neurosis that made me drive it right off the road.”

“You drive,” she said.

At last he got in under the wheel. On the way down the hill it had been bad enough. This was immeasurably worse. This was nightmare. Already he had gone beyond the bounds of memory. On that night nine years before he must have walked out of the Ocean Club and driven out of the parking lot onto the wet highway that reached, dark and shining, toward the hills.

Patience sat with her hands folded in her lap. He glanced at her quickly and saw that her face was calm. Her calmness lent him strength.

A dream, he thought. I am living a dream. I sit here, tense in the midst of nightmare. Nothing will happen. I will drive up the hill and down into the city and it will all be over.

Somewhere in the back of his mind a thin silver voice was calling him: “Matthew Otis! Matthew, darling!” The thin voice echoed as in a vast, empty room where she stood frightened in darkness.

The road began to lift toward the sharp turns. His hands were tight on the wheel and his mouth was a thin, hard line. His shoulders ached from the tightness of his grasp.

“Matthew, darling,” the voice called. Thin and far away. A voice that reached over nine years.

He hit the first turn a shade too fast, braking as the car rocked. Patience said nothing. The night was dark. The mist was thick in the blue-white headlight beams. The muted lights of the dashboard were an orange glow.

On the second turn he had to shift into second. The gears made a ragged noise as, rounding the curve, he dropped back into high.

Far up the straight stretch a car was coming toward them, its twin lights shining. Some fragment of memory stirred in the back of his mind.

Another night when the rain was thick in the headlight beams. Another car coming down the straight stretch.

Suddenly it was Alicia beside him. Not Patience. The lights coming toward them were bright. The lights and the rain blinded him.

He blinked his own lights rapidly. The lights bore down on them. It was then that he remembered.

The girl beside him — and it was Alicia — screamed as the wheels on the right dropped off the road onto the wet shoulder.

Off to the right was death. It was a death he had lived through once, but he could not live through it again. On that night nine years ago the onrushing lights had forced him over the edge. Cursing, he spun the wheel violently left. A crash was preferable to death down among the wet rocks.

Alicia-Patience screamed again as the lights leaped at them.

There was a ridiculously light impact and the other car was gone. His car swerved madly. He fought the wheel. His left headlight was gone. The car headed back toward the edge and he yanked it back onto the road. At last it nudged into the mud on the far side of the road and the motor stalled.

In the sudden silence Patience exhaled slowly.

His voice strangely high, he said, “That’s how it happened before! I remember now! Bright lights coming down on us. I got over as far as I could. The car rolled and I knew I was being thrown through the darkness, right through the canvas top. Then blackness.”

He put his arms around her and held her close. She was shivering.

She said, “If I’d let you talk me into driving, we’d be over the edge.”

He frowned, “I don’t get it. We should have hit him with a smash. I thought we were dead ducks. Got a flashlight?”

She clicked open the glove compartment and handed him a flashlight. He climbed out into the rain. The car was at right angles to the road, with the rear wheels barely on the pavement. The bumper was nosed into the muddy hillside.

He inspected the damage. An odd iron bar was wedged into the grill. There were fragments of glass on one end of it. The other end showed the bright face of fractured metal. He grabbed it and pulled it free. The left headlight had been smashed by it. The bar had punctured the radiator.

He climbed back in and put the bar on the floor. “We’ll ruin the engine if we try to make the rest of the hill. All the water has run out of the radiator.”

“Can we coast back to the Ocean Club? Do you think the other car went over the edge?”

“I didn’t hear anything. And I saw taillights going down the road in a pretty orderly fashion.”

“He could have stopped.”

Matt didn’t answer.

“What was that thing you put on the floor?” Patience asked.

“Something I want Evan to look at...”

Once more the three of them were in the private room in the Ocean Club. Evan began to respond to hot coffee. He sat nodding, as Matt told the story of the near-accident, made him repeat it.

Only then did he examine the odd bar which Matt had wrenched out of the grill of Pat’s car. He lost his sleepy look, became the competent engineer.

He said, “See here? This outside shell is hollow. This solid bar with the gear teeth on the bottom moves back and forth through it. This was a lamp socket. A headlight was fastened to the solid bar. See the slot in the shell so it could move freely?”

Patience frowned. “What does it mean? What is it?”

Evan said, “This thing goes on the front of a car. Suppose a guy is coming down that road and there’s a car coming up he wants to wreck. He can’t take a chance on moving over toward it. He might get clipped and go over himself. So he rigs up the gimmick. Maybe he’s got a little handle on the dash. As he turns the handle, the solid bar, carrying the lights with it, moves out to his left, activated by a little gear that fits against these slots.”

Pat’s eyes widened. “And the people in the other car would see the lights and they wouldn’t know that the lights were moving out toward them but the car itself was staying over on its own side. They’d get out of the way.”

Matt said slowly, “And our pal Roy was a part owner of a garage when Alicia and I went off that road. I remember being forced off.”

“This isn’t a new gimmick,” Evan said. “See the rust spots. This thing was out in the rain a long time ago. Nine years ago, maybe.”

Patience sat down suddenly. “He couldn’t!”

“Who did, then?” Matt asked. His voice was hoarse with hate and anger. Was this what Alicia had been trying to tell him for so many years?

“But why would he do it tonight?” Patience asked.

They looked at each other, bewildered. Then Evan began to smile. It wasn’t a pretty smile. He said softly, “Who inherits when you die, Patience?”

She put the back of her hand to her mouth. Her eyes were wide.

“Exactly,” Matt said. “And that’s why he went through with the wedding. He knew that if he couldn’t get the stock through her, he could work it another way. That’s why he had the party out here. Why, after Sue fainted, he said that he had been planning on taking her home early anyway.”

Evan was frowning.

“How would he know which car you’d be in?”

“There’s a parking spot at the top of the hill. You can see the Ocean Club from there. With a decent pair of binoculars, you could see who was getting into their cars. The lot here always is floodlighted.”

“Then he watched for you and Alicia nine years ago?” Patience asked in a tight voice.

Matt smacked his palm with a clenched fist. “Rose Carney suspected what had happened. She tried to tell me when she called me up, but I was too stupid to listen. She said he took her home from the Ocean Club nine years ago and left her. And that he came back later. That was when he drove us over the edge. He hated me for taking Alicia away from him. He must have made the gimmick in the garage after hours. Why, on that evening he even came over for a few final words with the condemned!”

Patience shuddered.

“The guy is crazy,” Evan said.

“Crazy, and efficient,” Matt said.

“What will we do?” Patience asked in a small voice.

“Get to a phone,” Evan said. “His car will still have some stuff on it to show where this little toy was attached. This rain won’t wash away the marks you made on the shoulder. We ring the cops in on this quick and have him picked up for attempted murder before he can dispose of the evidence.”

“I’ve got to get to Susan,” Patience said...

The man at the high desk picked up the phone and said in a tired voice, “Sergeant Rolph speaking.”

“This is Evan Cleveland, Sergeant.”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Cleveland?”

“I want Roy Bedford picked up immediately on a charge of attempted murder.”

The sergeant’s hand tightened on the phone. “You got enough for us to go on?”

“Plenty. And I don’t know anything about the statute of limitations, but I think I can prove he killed the Crane girl nine years ago.”

“An accident case, wasn’t it?”

“Look, Sergeant. I know how it is when anybody asks you to pick up a man like Bedford. He has influence and—”

“And Rose Carney’s sister is the wife of the deputy chief, Mr. Cleveland. We aren’t too fond of Bedford. Any idea where he is?”

“We’re at the Ocean Club. Twenty minutes ago he was in his car on the hill between here and town. I don’t know where he went from there.”

“We’ll see what we can do. Suppose you come in here. Ask for Lieutenant Canady. I’ll give him the pitch.”

The sergeant hung up, clapped a fist into a meaty palm and headed for the radio room...

Patience and Matthew stood on the wide porch of the Crane house. Matt rang the bell for the third time. The house was dark.

“You don’t suppose he came back here?” Patience asked softly.

“I wouldn’t think so.”

After a few moments a dim light shone in the hall. Matt, looking through the glass, saw a husky man in a bathrobe walking toward the door.

He opened it and said, “Yes?” The quiet, dignified voice of a trained domestic.

“We wish to see Mrs. Bedford, please,” Matt said.

“Sorry, sir. Mr. and Mrs. Bedford have retired for the night.”

“This is urgent.”

Smoothly the man said, “It certainly can wait until morning, sir.”

“It will not wait until morning,” Matt said.

The man’s eyes flickered dangerously. He said, “Very sorry, sir,” and began to close the door.

Matt drove against the doorframe with his shoulder. The man staggered back, his face ugly, his hand dipping into the pocket of the bathrobe. Matt rushed him. The hand flashed up and, as it started to come down, his wrist smacked into Matt’s palm. Matt tightened his fingers on the wrist and twisted. The man was powerful. He put a beefy arm around Matt’s neck and the dark hall filled with the hoarse sound of their breathing.

Matt realized he would never be able to twist the thick wrist hard enough. He released the wrist suddenly, brought his fist down in a diagonal blow against the man’s jaw, jumped back as the heavy sap in the man’s hand grazed his shoulder. The force of the blow swung the man off balance. Matt brought his left fist up and the jolt of the blow sent needles of fire up his arm to his shoulder. The sap dropped from nerveless fingers. But the man didn’t fall until Matt snatched the sap from the floor and laid it above the man’s ear. He caught him as he fell and eased him down onto his face.

“Chinese Army technique?” Patience said, her voice shrill with hysteria. Matt grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward the stairs.

The first upstairs room was empty. A still form lay in a huge bed in the second room. Patience found the light switch. Susan lay on her back, breathing through open lips. There was a bubble of saliva at the corner of her mouth and her eyes seemed sunken.

Patience said, “Sue! Wake up!”

Susan’s head wobbled on the pillow, but there was no break in the rhythm of the deep breathing.

“Doped,” Matt said. “That way she could give Roy an alibi. We’ve got to walk her.”

Patience found a robe in the closet and Matt sat Susan on the edge of the bed while Patience got the robe on her. Matt threw the inside bolt on the door and, with one on each side, they tried to walk her. Her head hung limply and she moaned. At first her feet dragged and she was an inert, awkward lump. In a few moments she began to walk in a stumbling fashion, tripping frequently on her own feet. Her walk grew better articulated and her head lifted, the eyes still closed.

At last she opened puffy eyes and said, “What — wha’ you doing?”

“We can get her out of here now,” Matt said. “You get her dressed. I’ll wait in the hall.”

Matthew stood in the hall and heard, through the closed door, the murmur of their voices. He looked down into the lower hall. The husky man was on his hands and knees, shaking his head from side to side.

A thick skull on that one, Matt thought.

He hurried down the stairs, making plenty of noise. He got in the lower hall just as the man scrambled drunkenly to his feet. Matt drove him over against the wall and put a forearm across his throat, the sap poised.

“Try anything,” Matt said, “and you get it across the bridge of the nose this time. Shut up and listen.” The man stopped his feeble struggling.

“Your boss is wanted for murder,” Matt said, watching the man’s eyes widen. “Too much trouble out of you and we can think up some rap to pin on you in connection with the murder.”

“Cop?” the man said hoarsely.

“No. But I’m on the same side. Will you be good?” The man nodded. Matt stepped back. “Where’s Mr. Bedford?”

The man looked genuinely surprised. “Isn’t he up there?”

“No. Did you think he was?”

“Yes, I did. I don’t want any part of any trouble, mister. I thought he was up there and my job is to keep people from busting in. A lot of people get sore at him.”

“A mastery of understatement.”

There was a sound of sirens in the distance, whining through the night, descending at last to a low growl and then silence, followed by the stamp of heavy feet on the porch. Matt flung the door open. A spidery little man with a sharp red nose stood with a uniformed patrolman hulking large behind him.

“Who’re you?” the little man demanded.

“Matthew Otis. Bedford tried to kill me and Miss Furnivall.”

“I’m Canady. You should have come in when you dropped Cleveland at headquarters. You got a warrant to swear out. We’re going on the basis you’ve signed it. You won’t back out?”

“Don’t be absurd!”

“Where’s Miss Furnivall? Who’s this man?”

“Miss Furnivall is getting her sister ready to leave this place. This man works for Bedford. Bedford isn’t here.”

“I figured he wouldn’t be. We’ve put the plates of his Chrysler on the tape in case he left town. The troopers’ll get him if he tries the coast road.”

“I don’t think he’ll run,” Matt said. “He’s got a genius complex. He doesn’t think anything can touch him.”

“He’ll run, Otis. Suppose you get the women over to the Furnivall place. Then get yourself back to the hotel. We’ll get hold of you if we need anything. Leave the keys to Cleveland’s car at the hotel desk.”

The two women came down the stairs. Susan still had a drugged look, a faraway look. Patience held her arm and walked carefully with her.

“Mrs. Bedford!” Canady snapped.

Susan turned her head slowly and looked at him blankly.

“What happened when you got home?”

“I got it out of her,” Patience said. “Don’t snap at her. When she was ready for bed Roy Bedford gave her a capsule. He told her it would quiet her nerves. That’s all she remembers.”

“Otis will take you home, Miss Furnivall. You and your sister. Stay there until you hear from me...”

After Matthew had helped Patience get Susan out of the car and up to bed, he held Patience tightly for a moment, kissed her and left.

He drove through the wet, deserted streets wondering where Roy Bedford could be. Roy must know that the unexpected maneuver on the part of the car he was trying to force off the road had carried away a piece of the mechanism he had designed so long ago. He would know that there had been no chance to identify him as the driver of the murder car.

The evidence would be circumstantial. Damage to the Chrysler. Roy had three choices. The first was to run — and that didn’t seem practical. It didn’t match Bedford’s character. The second was to provide himself with an alibi and to pretend that his car had been stolen. That seemed a feeble defense.

The third bet would be to remove from the Chrysler all evidence that it had been used on the hill.

The last idea made the most sense. Roy could either attempt to repair the car or dispose of it. Burning would be too risky. Evidence might remain. The ocean was handy. There was deep water at the end of the docks. Or he might even drive the car into a tree, planning that the impact would remove evidence of the previous lighter one.

The idea of the plunge off the dock didn’t seem too practical. There was too much chance of the car being recovered. A crash that would obliterate all evidence. Better than burning. Better than driving it into the sea.

Pleased with the logical procession of his thoughts, Matthew stopped, lit a cigarette and tried to carry his reasoning further. Before Roy could risk a collision, he would have to remove from the car the rest of the mechanism which made the lights movable. He would have to dispose of that. To remove it meant tools, working space, lights. A garage, preferably.

He began to wonder if Roy had ever disposed of the garage which had given him his start. It would be typical of him to retain ownership of the garage so that he could point it out to people he wished to impress. He could almost hear Roy say, “Ten years ago I was a grease monkey in that shack.”

With sudden resolve, Matt started the car, made a U-turn at the next intersection and turned back toward the garage where Roy had been working nine years before.

It was in a neighborhood of narrow flats, grocery stores, liquor stores, gas stations. It was in back of an ancient rooming house, the unlighted sign hanging out at the curb.

He drove beyond the entrance and walked back. The garage was dark. The structure of reasoning collapsed.

He glanced down. A tire had made a deep hollow in the dirt. The tread marks were crisp. Water from a nearby puddle flowed with a slow current into the deep track. He felt a sudden excitement. A car had gone in there not over a half hour before. It was a little more than an hour since the accident. To be safe, Roy would have taken the long way around to get back to the city.

With training born of night fighting, Matt drifted over into the thick shadow of the rooming house, headed back toward the garage. His steps made no sound on the moist earth. He moved close to the door, put his ear against it.

With startling clarity, he heard the clang of a tool dropped onto a concrete floor. The padlock was gone from the hasp on the wide sliding doors. He got his fingers in the crack between the doors and heaved suddenly. The door slid back with a deafening shriek.

The black Chrysler, moist with rain, stood in the middle of the small garage. A mechanic’s light, with birdcage bulb, lay on the floor near the front wheels. Roy Bedford, the light shining up onto his face, outlining the high cheekbones, squatted motionless, looking toward him. “Hello, Matt,” Roy said softly. “Want something?”

Matt could not see Roy’s hands. Doubtless he held some sort of tool.

“I was looking for you, Roy. I thought you might be here.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Roy said easily. “Nothing relaxes me as much as doing a little work on the wagon. You know how it is.”

“Sure, Roy. I know how it is.”

Every muscle tense, he walked closer. For a moment he had the idea that Roy was going to let him circle behind him. The urge to maim, to kill, was acid in his throat, was cold sweat and tensed muscles.

But Roy stood up without haste and moved back into the shadows away from the car. Matt could not examine the car without permitting Roy to get behind him.

It was a play where the lead actors circled each other on the dim stage, touched by the clever lighting, speaking in soft tones, the desire to kill carefully masked.

Matt kicked a piece of metal. It rang across the concrete. He stooped quickly and picked it up. Roy seemed to have moved a great deal closer to him during the moment his eye was off him. The metal had a familiar feel in his hand. It was wet, and there were serrations on the edge of it. It was too short to be a weapon, unless hurled with great force at too short a distance to be avoided.

He lifted it high so that he could look at it without taking his eye from Roy. It matched the piece that had been wedged into his grille.

“Funny-shaped piece of metal,” he said softly.

“All sorts of queer scrap in an old shop like this, Matt,” Roy said.

“This piece is damp.”

“The car is wet. Probably dripped on it.”

He still could not see Roy’s hands. The caged light was a blinding thing, making the shadows velvet black, making sparkling highlights on the metal skin of the car. The rubber cord on the light stretched back across the concrete near his feet.

“Why did you kill Alicia?” Matt asked, his voice almost tender.

Roy was silent, his face impassive. “You talk like that, Matt, and they’ll come and throw a net over you.”

“Over me? You’re the mad one, Roy. You couldn’t have Alicia. So you tried to kill both of us. As it worked out, I lived and she died. You liked it that way. You hoped I’d be crippled for life. You’ve squashed everybody in your path. You married Susan knowing that you would kill Patience. The method had worked once, so why not twice? Everyone knows how you did it, Roy. A pity you’re not more insane. If you were, you might end up in a nice institution. This way, they’ll shave the leg on the great Bedford and strap him down in a nice armchair and put a hood, a black hood over—”

“Shut up!” Roy screamed.

Matthew stood on the rubber cord with one foot and kicked it with the other. The sudden blackness was as violent as a shot. Noiselessly Matt moved toward the car. He stood, strained with the effort of listening, his fingers clenched around the piece of metal, his hand poised to throw.

Suddenly the car creaked, as though bearing someone’s weight.

There was a chance that he might be silhouetted against the lesser darkness of the open door. He moved away from the car, stepping cautiously. As he moved, his foot touched some tool on the floor. It shifted with an almost imperceptible grating sound.

He staggered and fell as Bedford leaped onto his back. He fell forward trying vainly to turn, his arms pinned, trying to avoid hitting his head on the concrete floor.

The dark garage exploded into pinwheeling lights, into nothingness...

He was being jiggled and it made his head hurt and something was digging into his cheek. He bit down on the moan, stifling it, as the vivid memory of the moment of falling flashed back into his mind. Slowly he realized that he was in a moving car. The thing against his cheek was the door handle. The inside of the car lightened briefly as they passed under a streetlight.

He knew that if he lifted his head and Bedford was driving, he would probably be pounded into immediate insensibility. It was hard to think clearly.

He felt as though one whole side of his head had been shattered.

When the car went around a corner he permitted himself to lurch, turning his head slightly. Through slitted eyes he saw Bedford, oddly relaxed behind the wheel, a small smile on his lips.

A confident smile, Matt thought. What has he got to smile about? What can he be planning to do? Matthew had no way of knowing where they were. Roy was driving slowly, so as not to attract attention.

Suddenly, out the window beyond Bedford’s head, he saw the high outline of a building, barely made out the white letters VALL. The Furnivall Company! The road passed the plant, then turned down across the sidings, down a gentle slope toward the main railroad tracks.

As they went slowly around the corner, Matt heard the distant huff of the train, the lonely call of the whistle. Why should Roy be smiling?

He shut his eyes as Roy turned and looked over at him, counting slowly in his mind to ten, then risking opening them again.

Roy took the car out of gear. They were on the slope headed down toward the main track. Roy opened the door on his side, stood up with his head and shoulders out in the night, one hand on top of the wheel, steering.

The roar of the train was closer. Much closer. The way Roy was standing he couldn’t see Matt. His mouth dry with sudden desperate fear, Matthew raised his head, saw the Cyclops eye of the pounding locomotive. The crossing signals flashed red.

Matthew, a hoarse cry in his throat, opened the door on his side. He grabbed Roy Bedford’s wrist, pulled with all his strength, pulled until Bedford was forced back in through the door, falling awkwardly across the wheel. Matt released his hold, rolled backward out of the door he had opened, thudded with sickening force against the steel upright of the crossing signal, hearing above the deafening roar of the locomotive one thin, high scream, cut off by a crash which sounded almost faint against the pound of the big steel wheels.

As the twin brakes screamed and slithered, steel on steel, Matt put his cheek against the wet gravel and began to cry like a heartbroken child.

Patience trudged over to the flat rock and sat down with a sigh. Her cheeks were flushed from the walk along the beach. At Matt’s urging, she had unpinned her severe hairdo. The wind whipped at her dark hair.

He gave her a cigarette, lit it, then sprawled on the sand at her feet, looking out across the gray sea.

“You were wrong, you know,” she said.

“About what?” he asked. “I’m wrong once a day like clockwork.”

“About Evan being in love with me. He went out to the rest home again this morning to see Sue. He’ll bring her back to life. He said she smiled at him the last time he went out. When he talks about her his eyes shine and he gets hoarse and funny.”

“Don’t laugh at men in love. I know they’re funny. You can reach out and kick one from where you’re sitting.”

She didn’t answer and he looked up at her. Her eyes were grave and steady.

“Matt, tension can do odd things. We were living in a nightmare. I don’t hold you responsible for anything you might have said.”

“Tonight I’m arranging soft lights and music and I’m going to say it again.”

“Isn’t it — too soon? After Roy’s death, and all that went with it?”

He laughed. “Roy was just pitiful, honey. As soon as he matched muscles with that locomotive, he became as extinct as the dodo. I can hardly remember what he looked like, even though I did just get the bandages off my skull yesterday. You’re trying to ask me if Alicia is out of my system. Right?”

He looked up at her. She looked away and said in a small voice, “I guess so.”

“In the fourteen days since Roy died, I’ve dreamed about her once. Want to hear about it?”

“If you want to tell me,” she said, her lips compressed.

“In my dream I was walking at dusk in a big city. The streets were empty of cars and people. I was going to meet Alicia. But I couldn’t remember the address. I was worried because I’d forgotten the address. All the streets looked alike. There were no signs, no numbers on the houses, no one to ask.

“Suddenly I heard someone calling me. It didn’t have that hollow, echoing sound that Alicia’s voice has always had in my dreams. It sounded as though it was right in my ear. I turned around and you ran into my arms. You, not Alicia.

“You were laughing and crying at the same time. Excited. I held you close and after a bit I asked you where Alicia was. You told me that she had gone away and that she had sent you to keep her date. I asked you what Alicia had been trying to tell me. You said that it wasn’t important any longer. I looked around then and all the sidewalks were filled with people and the streets were filled with cars and all the people were bustling by, paying no attention to us.”

He stopped talking, picked up a handful of sand and let it trickle through his fingers.

On the horizon a coastwise vessel left a smudge of smoke against the horizon. He looked up at Patience. Her lips were parted and she looked out at the ship.

“They say the best honeymoons are available on tramp ships in the South American trade,” he said, smiling up at her.

She moistened her lips and said, “Give me time to pack.”