The Dragon’s Teeth

IX. Beau’s Gesture

Last chance. Last chance. Last chance.

The two words synchronized with the throb of her temples. A senseless hammering that gradually took meaning, digging through the muck of horror and panic.

Was it? Was it really? The very last?

Kerrie crawled over to the double-doors again, lay down on the floor, pressed her nose as close as she could to the thin line where floor and door met. And she lay still, simulating death in her stillness, struggling to breathe slowly, evenly, quietly, to conserve each precious bubble of oxygen in the garage, in her lungs... grudging each breath, doling breath out to her body like a man doling out his last drops of water as he lies dying of thirst in the burning desert.

The cement floor was cold, but she did not feel its cold. Only the taste of death in her mouth and the giant pulse at her temples. Last chance. Last chance.

Was it?

She went over in her mind each physical detail of the, garage, taking inventory, a ghastly job of accountancy, before her vision, which already was blurring, should become a jumble of swimming, tumbling, senseless objects, before her head should vibrate like a huge drum, before the nausea should make her so sick that sickness would drive away even the desire to keep living, before she should succumb to unconsciousness and, unconscious, gasp the last bubbles of her life away.

Garage. Three walls — blank, solid. Only that sieve of an opening, the radiator-grille, which she could not reach. The fourth wall — the doors. No tools. Useless to hurl herself against the doors. She would give, her soft tissues, her slight weight, her small muscles. She would give, not the doors.

What else?

Herself. No. She had only her hands, her fingers, her nails. What use were they against brick, concrete, hard wood?

If only the butler hadn’t removed the hamper from the car. There were knives, forks in the hamper. Tools. But he had. Hamper from the car.

Hamper from the car.

Car.

Car!

The car!

Kerrie clung to that conception with desperation, turning it over in her mind, searching the flaws in the thought, probing, exploring, testing.

The car. Tool. It was. It could be. Not a puny tool like a screw-driver. A ram. A battering-ram!

She sat up quickly, reckless now of the exertion, her accelerated breathing, staring wildly at the roadster, at the space between her body and the roadster. About four feet. Not much. But it might be enough. And the rear bumper. It was a fairly heavy span of steel... But starting the car. That meant releasing more fumes. More carbon monoxide. It would cut short what remained of her life.

The drums in her head banged louder. She blinked, trying to bring the rear bumper into focus. Her eyes were giving way. Was that what happened? Oh, to die! Here. Don’t. Think. Chance. Your last, last chance.

Take it!

She rolled feebly over, managed to steady herself on her hands and knees, crept the four long feet to the car. Around the car. Now. Up. Up into the car. Up into the car.

She bit her lower lip with the effort. The pain was remote. She tasted her own blood. Up... The blood dripped from her lip, stained her dress. Up...

How loud the drums were. What was she going to do? Car. Ram. Start the car.

Oh, yes. Key. Where was the key? Key. She had turned off the ignition. What had she done with the key?

Groggily Kerrie looked down at her left hand, felt for it with her right. Both hands swam in a sort of warm and swarming sea of shadow. Key. There it was. In her left hand. She had never let go of it.

She fell forward against the wheel, groping for the ignition keyhole with the point of the key, scratching, scraping, sliding, key in hole, key in hole... She bit her lip again, deliberately, on the bleeding wound. The pain was sharp this time. Sharper. Bite. Again. She cried out. But her eyes cleared for an instant.

It was in. Now. Turn it. Turn it.

Slowly, slowly. There. It turned.

Now. The starter. Right foot. Bring it up. Drag it, push it up. Oh, it won’t move. Damn you... Kerrie took both hands and lifted her right leg from under the knee, carried it forward until the sole of her shoe lay on the starter.

Lean. Press.

The urgent rattle of the starter awakened her a little. She gulped, jerking in an abdominal spasm. The mutter of the motor filled her head. Quickly. Before it’s too late...

Left foot, clutch. Right foot, gas. Hand, shift. Shift. Shift!

Now!

The roadster leaped backward. Thud!

Forward. Backward. Thud!

Not hard enough. Stalled. Start again. Harder. Harder.

“Oh, the drums!” Thud! Forward. Crash! Forward. Crash! Stall... Start. Forward. Crash!

Better. There had been a crackly, splintery sound on that last one. Don’t look around. Hang on to yourself. Keep your stomach down. Hold your head up. Right foot, left foot, one going down as the other goes up. Crash! Now shift into first, forward, stop, reverse, right foot and left foot, one going down as the other goes up! Crash!

It’s going. Oh, it’s going. Think of that. Never stop thinking of that. Maybe just once more. Maybe just. Forward. Reverse. Crash!

Her left and right feet were frozen to the clutch and gas pedals as the roadster burst through the double-door, as she lay across the wheel fighting the world of falling shadows, the sickness in her body, the roaring in her head... burst through into the black night, rode over the door’s defeated, splintered body, careened as the weight of her body shifted the wheel, crashed into a broad and ancient beech yards to the side of the low garage building... crashed, snarled, was silent.

As silent as Kerrie who, even as the roadster struck the tree and the shock of the impact jerked her from the driver’s seat and threw her out of the car to lie crumpled on the cold grass, even as unconsciousness embraced her fluidly like the arms of the sea, was sucking the sweet clean breath of the world — sucking, frowning, her bleeding lips and throat and smudged nostrils greedy... sucking, gulping, savoring, breathing the blessed air.

When Beau drove into the grounds of the Cole estate, it was already dark.

He stopped at the servants’ quarters first. His operative, a large stout woman with eyes like steel nailheads, was rocking on the back porch.

“Well?”

“All okay.” The woman squinted at him. “You’re past due, Mr. Rummell. I was getting worried.”

“What happened today?”

“Miss Shawn and Miss Day left early this mornin’ on a picnic, just the two of them. Drove out in Miss Shawn’s roadster. I handed the chef the eatables meself. No chance for a slip-up, Mr. Rummell.”

“Driving off into the country alone!” Beau frowned. “How about Miss Cole? Mr. De Carlos?”

“Miss Cole didn’t leave the grounds all day. She entertained a party of newspaper people on the lawn. They left before dark and she had dinner alone and went up to her room. She called your number in the City just after dinner.”

“I know, I know. How about De Carlos?”

“Mr. De Carlos threw a water-party in the pool for Mr. and Mrs. Goossens and some free-gin lappers in the afternoon. He got drunk on absinthe at four-thirty and had to be helped to his quarters.”

“When did the girls get back from their picnic?”

“Less than an hour ago. Miss Day went right to bed. Miss Shawn drove her roadster round to the garage; butler told me. I guess she’s gone on up to her rooms.”

Beau drove back to the house. He went upstairs and knocked on Kerrie’s door.

He knocked again, listening; then he tried the door and found it unlocked. He pushed it open, went in, snapped on the light, and looked around.

Not there.

He was about to cross to the boudoir door when it opened and Violet Day, in a mauve satin négligé, her hair in two blonde braids down her back, her eyes half-closed in the light, as if she had been in darkness for some time, stood in the doorway.

There was a snub-nosed automatic in her left hand, and it was pointed at Beau’s breast.

“Oh, it’s you,” said Vi. But she did not lower the automatic. “What do you think you’re doing, pussyfooting around in Kerrie’s bedroom?”

“Where is she?”

“Kerrie? Isn’t she here?” A shadow passed over Vi’s face; she looked quickly about. “But I thought—”

“Put that pea-shooter down before you hurt somebody!” Vi’s arm sank. “Now where is she?”

“I came up here and she drove around to the garage to put the car away.”

“When?”

“Almost an hour ago. I was just dozing off when you—”

But Beau was gone.

He drove towards the garage. As he approached, he saw the unmoving shine of two headlights. He jumped out and ran over to Kerrie’s roadster. It was backed against a big beech tree, and it was empty.

Puzzled, Beau followed the parallel lines of the roadster’s headlights. Then he saw the broken door of the second garage compartment. He ran over and examined it. There was no lock on the fallen door. He rose, sniffing. Exhaust smell. But he could hear no sound of a running motor; and all five of the other garage stalls were closed and silent.

He sprinted back to the roadster. “Kerrie! Kerrie Shawn!”

There was no answer, and he began to circle the roadster. With a flashlight he examined the rear of the car; it was battered, its bumper hanging crazily. Then he went on and saw Kerrie lying still in the grass.

Flying feet made a noise behind him. “Kerrie! Is she... is she... dead?” Violet Day stood panting there. She had slipped a squirrel coat over her négligé. Her hair was disordered and her eyes big with fear.

“No. Breathing very fast. Heart’s racing. Kerrie!” Beau shook the limp body.

“But... but what—”

“Looks as if she was caught in the garage and had to fight her way out. Kerrie!” He slapped her pale right cheek, his left arm supporting her head. “Kerrie! Wake up. It’s—”

Her eyelids fluttered. Her eyes were dull, her brow furrowed, her mouth open to the night air.

“I’m — dizzy,” she said with a groan. “Who — I can’t see — well—”

“It’s... Ellery Queen,” said Beau, but Vi flung herself beside Kerrie and cried: “It’s Vi, hon! What happened? What was it this time?”

“Garage — carbon monoxide—” Kerrie fainted again.

“Carbon monoxide!” Beau shouted: “Get a lot of black coffee!”

Vi flew off.

Beau turned Kerrie over in the grass and straddled her. Her mouth and nose were sucking in the air. His big hands gripped her ribs; his torso worked up and down in a slow rhythm.

She was just coming to again when Vi, accompanied by Margo Cole and half the household, ran up. Vi carried a pitcher of steaming coffee and a glass.

“Vi says—” cried Margo; she was half-dressed. “Vi says Kerrie — Monoxide poisoning—”

Beau did not look at her. He seized the pitcher, poured a glass of coffee, sat Kerrie up and forced her to swallow. She cried out weakly, shaking her head. His fingers clamped the back of her neck; he exerted pressure, and she drank, tears streaming down her dusty cheeks.

When she had swallowed one glassful, he forced her to swallow another. A trace of color began to show in her cheeks.

“Drink it. Breathe in — hard. And drink.”

She drank and drank, while the silent group stood about.

“All right,” said Beau. “It’s as much as we can do now. Anybody call a doctor?”

“I did, sir,” said the butler. “Dr. Murphy of Tarrytown.”

“All we can do till the doctor comes is put her to bed. Kerrie!”

Her head was against his shoulder, resting heavily.

“Kerrie. Put your arm around my neck. Hang on, now.”

“What?” said Kerrie. She raised her eyes; they were still dull with pain.

“Never mind.” He picked her up; and after a moment her arm crept about his neck and clung.

Kerrie opened her eyes with a confused recollection of a nightmare. Garage — smell — fight — car — crash — a lot of people and... him... holding on to him and feeling, through her nausea, through the fog... feeling at peace.

And then the scene shifted to her room, like a movie. Windows thrown wide, Vi undressing her and getting her into bed... she was sick then... and later he was telling her not to mind, not to mind, just close her eyes, breathe deeply, try to rest, to sleep... then a strange man injecting something that stung for an instant — the air, the fresh clean sweet air — sleep...

Kerrie opened her eyes and in the hot light of morning saw Beau’s face, inches from her own.

She pulled him down to her, sobbing.

“All right. It’s all right now, Kerrie,” Beau kept mumbling. “You’re okay. There’s nothing to be afraid of now.”

“It was horrible,” sobbed Kerrie. “The garage — some one locked me in — I couldn’t get out — turned the motor on in the next garage — the fumes came through the radiator-grille — I got sick and dizzy — my tools were stolen, my revolver — I couldn’t get out...”

Beau’s arms tightened about her. When he had found Kerrie last night the lock was gone from the broken garage door; the motor of the car in the next garage had been turned off. Whoever had tried to kill Kerrie had stolen back, removed the lock, turned off the engine of the station-wagon, and gone away. Had Kerrie not managed to escape from the garage, had she died there like a mouse in a trap, it would have looked like the usual garage accident: the running motor of her own car, the doctors might have said — she fainted and was overcome. There would have been no evidence of a crime. An accident — like the “accident” on the bridle-path.

Kerrie’s tears were warm on his cheek. “I thought — you were in with her. Please. I was mad. I know you couldn’t. Oh, I love you. I do. I’ve been so miserable. I couldn’t leave here and let — her have you. I love you!”

“I know, funny-face. Me, too...”

“Darling.” She placed her palms on his cheeks and held his face off, smiling incredulously. Then she hugged him. “Oh, you do!”

The Tarrytown doctor came in and said: “I beg your pardon. Would you mind—?”

Beau stumbled out.

Margo kept him waiting fifteen minutes. When her maid finally admitted him, Margo was lying graceful-armed on a chaise-longue, her body draped in a dramatic morning gown, every hair in place, and her dead-white cheeks carefully made up.

“How nice,” she smiled at him, and then said rapidly to her maid: “Bêtise! Va t’en!” and the maid fled. As soon as the door closed Margo slipped off the couch and went to him.

He took her in his arms. She put her hands on his chest after a while. “Sit down here with me. You’ve kept me waiting so long.”

“Couldn’t get here sooner.”

“Oh. Kerrie? It would be.” She said it lightly. But she pushed him away a little.

“Sure it would be!”

“And how is the little mousy darling? I suppose you’ve sat up with her all night?”

“I had to put on an act, didn’t I? Somebody had to.” Beau made his tone annoyed, even truculent. But he was careful to draw her close to him again.

“You — it was you found her last night, wasn’t it?” murmured Margo.

“Lucky for you I did, gorgeous.”

“What do you mean?” She opened her Egyptian eyes wide, staring in the innocent-little-girl way she affected.

“You know what I mean.”

“But I don’t. I was shocked to hear about Kerrie’s latest adventure with the fates. She has such foul luck with horses and garages, hasn’t she? Is she all right this morning?” Margo sat down on the chaise-longue and patted it invitingly.

“No thanks to you.” Beau laughed, stretching out beside her. She leaned on him, chin propped on her long hands, eyes on his face. “Don’t you think that was a little raw, baby?”

“Raw?” She looked blank.

“This last stunt of yours.” His tone said he was amused.

“This last—” She wrinkled her nose in perplexity. Then she laughed. “You think I locked Kerrie in that garage and tried to kill her? I?”

“That’s what I mean.”

She stopped laughing. “I don’t like that!”

“Neither do I. That’s why I’m giving you a little friendly advice.”

“That, chéri,” she said softly, “is a very dangerous thing to say. I might sue you for slander — if I didn’t like you so much.”

“I wouldn’t be wasting my time if I didn’t have your interests at heart.”

“Heart! What do you know about hearts? You’re a lump, a stone!”

He grinned at her. “Yeah. Like coal. Hard and black and cold. Till you light a fire under it.”

“You’re a cinder!”

“Try me and see.”

She rose suddenly and went to the window to stare out at the gardens.

“Come here,” said Beau lazily.

She turned with reluctance. Then she went back to him, and sat down again, and he took her hands.

“You don’t believe me, do you?”

“In what way?”

He put his arms about her. “Don’t you know, deep inside, that you’re safe with me, baby?”

“Safe?”

“Don’t you know you and I can go places together? The only thing is — you’re a little foolish.”

“What a charming compliment!”

“You’re foolish because you take foolish chances. You’ve let yourself be swept away by your feelings. That’s why women’s crimes are so easy to spot. For one thing, you think I’m in love with Kerrie Shawn.”

“Aren’t you?” she asked through her strong white teeth.

“That skinny little thing? When I’m a sucker for your type?”

“Just my type?” She was growing arch now.

“For you, damn you! You know it, only you’re too damn’ suspicious. Does this feel phony?”

He pulled her over until she lay in his arms.

“Does it?” He kissed her.

She closed her eyes, responding slowly. But it was the creep of a rising flood.

“Wait. Wait,” she gasped, pushing him away. “You say you don’t love her. How do I know? The way you’ve looked at her. And last night—”

“I tell you she doesn’t mean a thing to me!” snarled Beau. “But I’m smarter than you, baby. I put on an act. And you’d be a hell of a lot smarter to put on an act, too, instead of running your neck into a noose!”

“I don’t — know what you mean.”

“You want her dough, don’t you?” said Beau in a brutal tone. “All right. How do you try to get your hands on it? By putting her out of the way. Dangerous, you fool! It takes finesse. You can get what you want a whole lot more safely.”

She did not answer in words. She pulled him down to her and put her lips to his ear.

“You can get it, and me, too,” growled Beau.

She whispered.

“But we split, see?”

She kissed a trail from his ear to his lips.

Later, when Beau left her, he went into a bathroom and spent three minutes rinsing his mouth.

Beau left the grounds early that morning; he was back by the afternoon.

Kerrie was waiting on the terrace. For him. He knew it was for him. By the way she started when she saw him. By the glad look in her eyes — glad, and anxious, too, as if she couldn’t make up her mind whether what had happened was a dream or an actuality.

He stooped and kissed her.

The book slipped off her lap. “Then it’s true!” And she jumped up and kissed him fiercely. “Let’s go somewhere!”

“Where’s Vi?” asked Beau slowly.

“She had an appointment in town with the hairdresser. Darling. You do love me?”

He held her close.

“That’s all I wanted to know.” She shivered with joy. “I don’t care about anything else.”

“Let’s take a walk,” said Beau.

They strolled into the sweet-smelling woods, his arm about her.

There was something unreal about the afternoon; the sunlight filtering through the leaves had a red cast, so that they seemed to be walking in a place not of earth.

“It isn’t,” said Kerrie, “as if the future were altogether rosy. It isn’t. There are so many things I don’t understand. About you, darling. And about the future. But I’ve made up my mind not to look ahead... Isn’t it lovely here?”

Beau sat down on a weatherbeaten stump. Kerrie sank to the ground and rested her cheek on his knee.

“What’s the matter, dear? You look — funny.”

Beau hurled a twig away. “Kerrie, we’ve got to face the facts. You’re on the spot.”

“Please. Let’s not talk about that.”

“We’ve got to. You’re on the spot, and we’ve got to do something about it.”

She was silent.

“Your uncle paid me to find his heirs. I should have bowed out when I located you and Margo showed up. I’ve only brought you a peck of trouble.” He scowled.

“I’m glad you didn’t bow out.” She pressed his knee.

“I didn’t because — well, I had reason to believe your uncle Cadmus was murdered. I still believe it.”

The red light of the sky on her pallor gave her face an eerie violet cast.

She stammered: “But I don’t... I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I.” He pulled her up and sat her on his knee, staring at the sky. “Anyway, I’ve been hanging around trying to find out what it’s all about. And who’s behind it.”

“Margo,” whispered Kerrie. “Margo! She’s tried to kill me, Ellery. But how could she — Uncle was at sea—”

“There’s plenty we don’t know. Anyway, funny-face, maybe now you’ll realize why I’ve been paying so much attention to your cousin Margo.”

“Darling, why didn’t you tell me?” Kerrie sprang off his lap. “Can’t we expose her?”

“No proof. She’s cute as hell, Kerrie. She’s covered her tracks too well. And if we force her hand now, she may become desperate.” Beau paused, then said quietly: “Sooner or later, no matter how many precautions we take, one of these little ‘accidents’ won’t fail.”

“The police—”

“They’d laugh at you, and you won’t have anything to offer them but suspicions. Then the cat will be out of the bag and you’ll be worse off than now.”

“What do you want me to do, Ellery?” asked Kerrie simply.

“Get married.”

Kerrie was silent. And when she did speak, it was in an unsteady voice. “Who would marry me, even if I should be silly enough to give up twenty-five hundred dollars a week for him?”

“I would,” muttered Beau.

“Darling!” She flew to him. “If you’d said anything else I’d have killed myself!”

“You’ll have to kiss the dough goodbye, Kerrie,” he said gently.

“I don’t care!”

“Funny kid.” He stroked her hair. “I’d have asked you to marry me in Hollywood, but I couldn’t bring myself to — not when it meant depriving you of everything money could give you. But now it’s different. It’s no longer a choice between money and me... it’s a choice between money and—” He drew her closer.

“The money doesn’t mean a thing to me,” cried Kerrie. “The only one I’m sorry for is Vi. Poor Vi will have to go back—”

“You would think of her,” grinned Beau. “Think of yourself for a change! With you married, Margo gets your share of the income automatically. So she won’t have to kill you, and you’ll be safe.”

“But, Ellery.” She looked troubled. “She likes you. I know. She likes you a lot. If you marry me, she won’t — I mean, a woman can act awfully nasty in a case like that.”

“There won’t be any trouble with Margo,” said Beau quickly.

“But—”

“Kerrie, are you going to trust me, or aren’t you?”

She laughed tremulously. “Yes — if you marry me now, today!”

She could hold him against any woman, she thought — once they were married. She had so much love to give. So much more than a woman like Margo could possibly offer, much less feel.

“Is this a proposal?”

“I couldn’t make it any clearer, could I? Oh, but I’m delirious, I guess, darling. How can you marry me today? We haven’t even a license.”

“Didn’t I say to leave everything to me?” Beau grinned again. “I took out a Connecticut license last week.”

“Ellery! You didn’t!”

Kerrie ran all the way back to the house. Beau followed more slowly. Following, with her eyes no longer on him, he stopped grinning. In the deepening crimson light, his face was ghastly, too.

X. The Ring and the Book

Kerrie was furiously hurling things into three bags when Vi returned. Beau was pacing the terrace downstairs in the dusk; Kerrie could hear the slap of his steps. She was grateful for them, because they kept him near her. She felt the need for his nearness when Vi came in, and that was strange, for Kerrie had never required a defense against Vi before.

“Kerrie! What’s up?”

“Darn it,” said Kerrie. “Where are those new nighties?”

“In the bottom drawer. What are you packing for? Where are you going?”

“Away,” said Kerrie, as if it were unimportant. She did not look at Vi. “This is a heck of a trousseau I’m getting together.”

“Trousseau? Kerrie, are you gaga?”

“I’m going to marry Ellery Queen.” From an irresistible compulsion Kerrie said it lightly.

She heard Vi’s gasp and the creak of the box-spring as her friend sank onto the bed.

“Marry? Him?”

“What’s the matter with him?” laughed Kerrie. “He’s the most fascinating thing in pants I’ve ever met, and I’ve decided to grab him before he changes his mind.”

Vi did not laugh, however. “But, Kerrie— When?”

“Now. Tonight.” Despite her best effort, a note of defiance crept into Kerrie’s voice.

There was the most peculiar expression on Vi’s face. But then she jumped up and hugged Kerrie. “All the luck, hon. You’ve got more guts than I’d have.”

Kerrie clung. “Oh, Vi, I know what this means to you. Back to the old grind—”

“Easy come, easy go,” said Vi gaily. “Don’t fret yourself about me. It’s twelve o’clock, and the coach turns into a pumpkin, and the glad rags become just rags... Well, I had a few weeks in a fairy tale, anyway.” She pressed Kerrie to her bosom convulsively. “Kerrie, you’re sure?”

“What do you mean?” But Kerrie knew exactly what Vi meant. And because she herself had had similar suspicions, she felt herself go hard inside and slipped from Vi’s embrace to resume her packing.

“And how about Sister Rat?” asked Vi dryly, after a long time.

“Who? Oh! I don’t know. What’s more, I don’t care.”

Vi looked at Kerrie; then she laughed. “So little Kerrie’s been snagged by the tough lad who looks like Robert Taylor... Quite a triumph. Epic, they’d call it in the movies. Giving up the old boodle for lo-o-ove. He must feel pretty snazzy, that man!”

“Vi. That’s hateful,” said Kerrie in a low voice.

Vi sat down on the bed again. “I’m sorry, Kerrie; I guess the shock... Tell me just how it happened. It’s really too thrilling for words.”

Kerrie looked her friend straight in the eye. Vi looked away. “Not so long ago, Vi, you were begging me to give all this up, to run away. And now, when I’ve decided to take your advice, you don’t seem... well, pleased. Why?”

“I’m not pleased? But, Kerrie dear, aren’t you a little mixed up? You’re the one who has to be pleased, not I. Are you?”

“Very much!” Kerrie tossed her head.

“Then that’s all that matters,” laughed Vi. “Now are you going to stop being silly and tell me everything?”

Yes, Vi was acting peculiarly. Of course, it was natural for her to be — surprised... yes, and disappointed, too, over the prospect of Kerrie’s marriage. It meant Vi’s brief day of bliss was over and that she would have to go back to the old, mean, scraping life. And then for some time Kerrie had had the queerest feeling that Vi had come to distrust him. Oh, Vi liked him, all right; Kerrie was woman enough to be sure of that fundamental fact... And, too, Kerrie’s marriage meant the separation of the two friends. That much could be remedied!

“Of course, you’ll take pot luck with us,” said Kerrie quickly. “I couldn’t think... We won’t have much, because Ellery’s not well off, and it will probably mean a small apartment in the city. But we’ll manage beautifully, Vi—”

“Thanks, Kerrie,” said Vi. “But I’ve been a millstone round your neck long enough.”

Kerrie dropped an armful of stockings and ran to the bed. “Vi! You’re crying!”

“I’m doing no such thing,” said Vi, springing up. “I’m going right back to Hollywood, where men are rats and all the rats are casting directors, and with the publicity I’ve had through this little racket of ours I’ll get steady work — maybe. Well, I will!”

“Oh, Vi!” And it was Kerrie’s turn to sniffle.

“Stop it,” said Vi. She picked Kerrie up and deposited her on the bed. “Now you lie there while I finish packing for you. I’ll see you through the execution, anyway, and then—”

They finished packing together, in silence.

Pink and blue — that was how Kerrie had always visualized her wedding. She would wear a pale pink satin gown with a short train and a swathing veil of pink tulle. The gown would be princess-lined, with leg-o’-mutton sleeves and a high neckline edged with a narrow pleated ruffle, and the gown would button down the back — one long row of twinkly little buttons from her neck to her waist. Pink satin slippers, long pale pink kid gloves, a wedding bouquet of pink camellias and baby’s-breath...

There she would stand, a creation in pink among bridesmaids in baby blue, who would be wearing doll hats and little muffs made out of fresh flowers. Of course Vi, as maid-of-honor, would be in powder blue...

That’s the way it had always been, a vision of the future. But what was the actuality? Kerrie had hurriedly put on a simple two-piece tailored dress of navy-blue net, with a touch of white at the throat, and a navy-blue hat, white gloves, and navy patent leather shoes and bag. It was all right, but... And Vi. Vi had climbed into a white tailored sharkskin suit over a pink sweater.

And even aside from the clothes — just the three of them. That masterful individual who either scowled or grinned had insisted upon secrecy.

“When the papers get hold of this,” he had said, “you’ll be hounded to death. It’s a big story.”

“But, darling,” Kerrie wailed, “something — anything — a few friends. A woman only gets married once! I mean—”

“So you see what you’re getting,” said Vi. “A woman only gets married once! Didn’t you ever hear of Reno?”

“Lay off my wife,” said Beau. “Heiress Gives Up Fortune for Love! They’ll play it up bigger than the bundling party at Munich. If you want to enjoy your honeymoon, funny-face, you’ve-got to outsmart the press.”

“But how, darling?”

“Leave it to your uncle Dudley.” And he had telephoned a Justice of the Peace he said he knew in Connecticut, upon whose discretion he could rely, and had sworn Margo and De Carlos and the servants to a twenty-four hour conspiracy of silence, and had refused to tell even Kerrie where he was going to take her on their honeymoon.

And Margo — Margo was something of a surprise.

“You mean you’re actually giving up Uncle’s money?” she asked when she heard the news.

“Yes.”

“But why?”

“We happen to be in love,” said Kerrie shortly.

“Oh, I see.” And Margo smiled slightly at the stiff face of the groom-to-be. “Well, I hope you’ll be very happy.”

“Thank you.”

It was baffling. Margo acted almost relieved. Of course, as soon as Kerrie married, Margo’s weekly income would be doubled. But Kerrie had been positive Margo was in love with “Ellery” — as much in love as a woman of that sort could be. Wasn’t there a conflict? Or had Kerrie been altogether mistaken about Margo — in everything?

“You’re being married immediately?” murmured Margo.

“We’re leaving in ten minutes,” said Beau abruptly. “We’ll be married before the night’s over.”

“How romantic!” said Margo; and then she said politely: “Is there anything I can do, Kerrie?”

“No, thanks. Vi’s going with me.”

“But there must be things you aren’t able to do at such short notice — arrangements about your belongings, your bank—”

“They can wait. Goodbye, Margo.”

“Goodbye.”

They eyed each other inscrutably.

Then Edmund De Carlos stumbled in, drunk as usual.

“What’s this I hear?” he shouted jovially. “Getting married to Queen, or some such nonsense, Kerrie?”

“But it’s true, Mr. De Carlos.”

“True!” He gaped at her. “But that means—”

“I know,” snapped Kerrie. “It means I’m giving up twenty-five hundred a week for life in exchange for a big lug who’ll probably beat me up for exercise on Saturday nights. Now that that’s clear — goodbye, everybody.”

And they drove off, leaving De Carlos goggling after them, and Margo on the drive in a long white gown which shimmered in the dying sunlight, smiling faintly.

Kerrie found herself thinking about her cousin’s smile as Beau’s car rattled toward Connecticut. It was a strange quarter-smile, a delicate and subtle exhibition of amusement, and it had persisted throughout their farewells to the silent household staff, the packing of Kerrie’s and Vi’s bags into Beau’s runabout, throughout the exchange with De Carlos.

That smile of Margo’s seemed to have cast a pall over all three of them. Beau drove in a shut-in silence, and in the back seat Vi was a mouse.

What’s the matter with us? thought Kerrie in despair. This isn’t an elopement; it’s a funeral. Why is he so quiet? And Vi?

It was that woman back there, dominating the driveway, mistress of all she surveyed — ex-clothes-horse! Gloating over the fine rolling lawns, the big house, the view of the Hudson — visibly gloating over her triumph.

That was it — triumph. Why was she so triumphant? Did complete possession of the estate mean so much to her? Or was there something darker and deeper and more hateful in the secret pleasure of that smile?

Kerrie leaned on Beau’s shoulder and touched the lobe of his ear with her lips. He grunted something.

“Give the gal a break, Mister,” said Vi suddenly from the back seat. “You owe her something for making her lose that twenty-five hundred per.”

“Vi!” said Kerrie angrily.

But Beau did not take his eyes from the unwinding tape of the road, and both women fell silent, and no other word was spoken until they crossed from Port Chester into Connecticut.

Kerrie burst out at last: “If you’d rather forget the whole thing, this is the time to say so!”

He started at that, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. “Kerrie! What makes you say a fool thing like that?”

“You don’t seem very happy over the prospect of marrying me,” retorted Kerrie in a small voice.

“Oh.” He looked straight ahead again. “Maybe it’s because I know what it means to you, Kerrie. What have I got to offer you to take the place of all that dough?”

“If you feel that way about it, then you don’t know what getting married means to me!”

“I’m seven different kinds of heel,” he said quietly.

“You’re marrying me to keep me from being killed!” cried Kerrie. “Oh, I see it all now! You’re not in love with me. You never have been! That’s what she was smiling—”

“She?”

Kerrie bit her lip. “Never mind.”

“Kerrie—”

“Oh, you’re being fine and heroic!” said Kerrie scornfully. “Well, thanks, but I want a husband, not a lifeguard. Please turn the car around and take me back to Tarrytown.”

And she crouched in her corner, her face turned away.

He drove onto the grass shoulder beside the road, stopped the car, said over his shoulder to Vi, “This woman takes a lot of convincing. Excuse us,” and, seizing Kerrie by the waist, yanked her to him.

She gasped. After a moment she put her arms about him.

When he released her he said: “Any doubts now?”

Kerrie was breathing hard; her eyes were shining. She twisted about and said in confusion: “Never a dull moment, that’s us. I think I am wacky. Oh, Vi, this is awful. Can you ever forgive us?”

But Vi was — or was pretending to be — asleep.

They pulled up in the yard of a disreputable clapboard house near Greenwich, on the sagging porch of which a mean sign announced:

A board was missing from the second step of the wooden stairs leading to the front porch, the plot before the house was a miniature wilderness of weeds and rubbish, and the once-white walls were encrusted with the dirt of decades.

“Cheerful little place to tie the knot,” remarked Vi. “So elegant, so refined! What is this, Queen — a haunted house?”

“Johnston isn’t very strong on soap and water. Ready, Miss Shawn?”

“Y-yes,” said Kerrie.

“She’s a little gun-shy,” said Vi. “Buck up, darlin’. This is one form of execution that isn’t permanent. You can rise from the grave any time you like, if you know the right judge.”

“You’re... you’re sure you’ve got the license, Ellery?” stammered Kerrie, ignoring Vi’s prattle.

“Right in my pocket.”

“It’s all right? I mean, I always thought the woman had to sign on the license, too, when it’s taken out. But—”

“Pull,” grinned Beau. “After all, my old man’s a somebody in New York, isn’t he?”

“Oh, Inspector Queen. And I haven’t even met him!” Kerrie looked anxious. “But this is Connecticut, darling, not New York!”

“You find more things to worry about,” grunted Beau, and he scooped Kerrie from the walk and carried her over the broken step, and Kerrie giggled something about Isn’t that premature? and Beau set her down and set off a bell that jangled rustily.

A tall gaunt man wearing thick glasses and an ancient morning coat peered out through the dirty pane at the side of the front door. When he saw Beau his thin features cracked into smiles and he hastened to admit them.

“Come in!” he said heartily. “All ready for you, sir!”

“Mr. Johnston — Miss Shawn — Miss Day.”

“So this is the blushing bride.” The man beamed down on Kerrie. “This way, please!”

There was something fantastic about the thin, stooped figure that made Kerrie suppress another giggle. What a way to be married, in what a place, by what an agent of the State! The Justice had a head of bristly gray hair, and he wore a mustache of the untrimmed, thicket variety; he looked like a vaudeville comedian. And the house! The front hall was bare, and the parlor he led them into was a cold, dark, sparsely furnished room so full of dust that Kerrie began to sneeze.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Vi’s nose wrinkle with disgust, and laughed aloud. Then Vi laughed, too, and they began to whisper together.

It certainly is a “different” sort of wedding! thought Kerrie as Beau conferred with the Justice at a desk in a corner over the marriage license. He would pick a place like this, and a funny man like that to marry them! Always doing the unexpected. “Never a dull moment,” she had said to Vi in the car. No, there never would be with him. Perhaps that was why she loved him so much. It would be like being married to a ball of lightning.

Vi whispered: “Scared?”

“I should say not.”

“How does it feel to be taking the fatal step, liar?”

“S-simply s-swell.”

“No — regrets, Kerrie?”

Kerrie squeezed her friend’s hand. “Not even a little one, Vi.”

Then the two men came back, and the Justice took up a position in a certain formal way and cleared his throat importantly, and Kerrie was so surprised she said: “But aren’t we supposed to have two witnesses, Mr. Johnston?”

“Of course, my dear,” said the Justice hastily. “I was about to explain that Mrs. Johnston is unfortunately in Greenwich at the moment, and if you’d care to wait—”

“Miss Day is one,” said Beau. “And I don’t think we’d like to wait. How about it, funny-face?”

“Certainly not,” said Kerrie firmly.

“Naturally, naturally!” said Mr. Johnston. “This occurs occasionally, of course. If you have no objection, Miss Shawn, the only other thing we can do. is... er... flag a witness outside, so to speak.”

“Pick somebody interesting,” giggled Kerrie.

And the tall man hurried out, and they heard him shouting at passing cars, and finally he returned in triumph, like Pompey, towing an inebriated traveller who leered at Kerrie and at Vi and even at Beau, and Beau had to hold him up during the ceremony to avert the total collapse of his rubbery legs.

That was the last straw, and Kerrie was so busy trying to keep a straight face that she scarcely heard one mumbly word of the service. She was actually astonished when Vi giggled: “Wake up! You’re a married woman!”

“I’m— Oh, Vi!” And she threw herself into Vi’s arms while Beau helped the stranger to a rocker, and paid the Justice, and then approached to claim his bride.

He was actually pale.

“It was the nicest wedding,” said Kerrie with a wavery smile. “Darling — aren’t you even going to kiss Mrs. Queen?”

He took her in his arms without a word.

XI. Villainy at the Villanoy

“Up to now,” said Vi when they got back in the car, “I’ve been chief mourner. But now that the funeral’s over, chickadees, take me to the New Haven and then be gone with the wind — and my blessing.”

“No,” protested Kerrie. “Ellery, don’t you do it!”

“Wouldn’t think of it,” said Beau. “Where you bound, blondie?”

“New York.”

“Then we’ll take you there.”

“But that’s out of your way!”

“Who told you?” chuckled Beau. “We’re headed for the city, too.”

“You mean — a honeymoon in New York?” gasped Kerrie.

“Sure. That’s the one place the smart boys won’t think of looking for us.”

“Oh,” said Kerrie. Then she said valiantly: “I think that’s a gorgeous idea, don’t you, Vi?”

“Yes, indeed,” murmured Vi. “And just think of all the fun you’ll have — a wedding dinner at the Chink’s, and you can go roaming the primeval wilderness in Central Park, and all. Such a romantic place to honeymoon!”

“Well, it is!” said Kerrie.

“Sure it is, hon. Anyway, it’s your honeymoon — and your husband, thank goodness!”

Kerrie and Vi argued all the way into New York. Kerrie wanted Vi to spend the rest of the evening with them, and Vi insisted she was tired and sleepy and had to get settled and all... Beau urged Vi to stick with them, too. Kerrie resented that — just a little. Then she felt ashamed of herself. But she was relieved when Vi remained adamant.

They dropped Vi at a genteel ladies’ hotel in the East Sixties. The two women parted with tears and embraces.

“You’ll keep in touch with me, Vi?” cried Kerrie.

“Of course, kid.”

“Tomorrow — I’ll ring you tomorrow.”

Then Vi’s tall figure was gone, and Kerrie was alone with her silent husband.

He was kept busy driving through the midtown traffic, and Kerrie managed to occupy herself for a long time with her lipstick and powder-puff. But even the most careful make-up duty ends at last, and then there was nothing to do but stare straight ahead, feeling hot fires in her cheeks.

“You smell nice,” he said in a growly voice.

She laid her head on his shoulder in a spasm of tenderness.

“Where are we stopping?” she whispered.

“The Villanoy. Right off Times Square. They won’t find us there in a million years.”

“Wherever you say, darling.”

At the Villanoy a doorman took charge of the car, and two bellboys commandeered the luggage — Kerrie flushed when she noticed the initials K S on her bags — and Beau registered at the desk, writing “Mr. and Mrs. Ellery Queen” in a firm hand, and the desk-clerk didn’t even blink.

Then there was the long ascent in the elevator under the scrutiny of a couple with remarkably inquisitive eyes. The woman whispered something to her escort, laughing, and Kerrie was sure they were whispering about newly-weds, but finally that ordeal was over, and they and their bags and the bellboy were marching down a long corridor to a door marked 1724, and they went in, and the bellboy set down the bags and threw up the shades of the sitting room and opened the windows wide, so that New York flowed into the room in a nice, quiet, above-it-all way.

The boy repeated the chore in the bedroom. Twin beds, Kerrie noticed, recalling that downstairs her husband — husband! — had asked for twin beds. But then she supposed it was because he was accustomed to... The bellboy left noiselessly, pocketing a half-dollar with no surprise whatever, and they were alone at last.

“It’s a darling suite,” said Kerrie in the strained silence. She went to inspect the closets, glorying in the first official impulse of her housewifely existence.

Beau was planted in the center of the sitting room, his hat still on his curly hair, a cigaret forgotten in his fingers — looking rather silly, Kerrie thought with secret amusements as she poked in the closets.

“Aren’t you going to stay a while, Mr. Queen?” she called.

“Kerrie.” Something in his tone made her come out of the bedroom closet, take off her hat, put it on die bed, strip off her gloves, all slowly. There was that pain again, in her chest. It was a pain she felt through no one but... him.

“Yes?” She managed to keep her tone casual. But whatever he was about to say would be — catastrophic. She knew that. It had been coming all afternoon. “Yes, dear?” said Kerrie again in a light tone.

He kept staring at the tip of his cigaret. Kerrie’s eyes burned on him. Oh, darling, darling, what is there between us? That comes up even at a time like this? Then he looked up and she was smiling.

“I’ve got something to do, Kerrie.”

“Now?”

“Now. Hungry?”

“Not a bit. What do you have to do?” That was wrong; she shouldn’t have asked that. It would make him hate her.

“Business. In all the hurry—” She deserved that. Business! It was almost funny. “I’ll send something up for you.”

“Don’t bother. If I want anything, I’ll call Room Service.” Kerrie turned her back toward him, stooping over one of her bags. “Will you be gone long?”

“Here, let me do that,” he said. He took the bag from her, carried it into the bedroom, returned for the other bags, carried them into the bedroom. She followed slowly. He hadn’t answered her question. “While you’re waiting, you can unpack — you’d have to unpack, anyway, and you may as well do it now instead of...”

“Darling.” She ran to him and put her arms about his neck. “Is anything wrong?” She couldn’t help it. She couldn’t.

He looked blustery, and she knew she had failed. “Wrong? Look, Kerrie. I’ve just got to go out—”

“Then you’ve got to,” said Kerrie brightly, releasing him. “Don’t make such funny faces! Any one would think you were about to leave me forever. You wouldn’t desert your bride of an hour, would you, Mr. Queen?”

“Don’t be a goop.” He kissed first the tip of her nose, then the dimple in her chin, and finally the bow of her lips. “Be seeing you, funny-face.” He strode out.

“Ellery! Come—”

She heard the slam of the front door.

Kerrie sat slowly down on one of the beds. Her brain ached. Blank. Void. Nothing. No thinking. Just sit. Or get up and do something. But don’t think—

Flowers.

Of course! That’s what had been bothering him! He’d forgotten to buy her flowers. He’d felt ashamed of himself. That made him act uncomfortable, and his uneasiness had communicated itself to her, and all the rest was her own imagining... He’d gone downstairs to buy her some. He’d probably be back with boxes of flowers and buckets of champagne, and they’d have a tête-à-tête supper high over the city... Mr. and Mrs. Ellery Queen, in love and sitting on top of the world!

She flung herself backward on the bed and stretched luxuriously, yawning and smiling. But it was a yawn of excitement, not sleepiness.

Kerrie undressed quickly, washed in icy cold water, recombed her hair, made up again, and then put on a different dress — the one with the wide red leather belt and the peasant blouse with blue stripes that flattered her eyes so, and heightened her complexion.

It was still early. Perhaps they’d take a walk on Broadway after supper, before returning to the hotel. She’d wear the little straight-brimmed straw with the coque feather...

She unpacked her bags. Her dresses were so wrinkled. But they’d hang out in the closet by morning. As she draped them on hangers she suddenly thought that he didn’t have a bag at all. It had happened so quickly — their running away, their marriage...

She flushed and finished unpacking, stowing her powders and finishing creams and deodorants and perfumes and toilet waters in the bathroom cabinet. Not on the vanity. Women ought to keep the machinery of beauty hidden — especially married women. And he wouldn’t see her — ever — with her face creamed up and her hair in an unsightly tight net. She’d always be fresh-looking... make him wonder...

Silly. Childish. She wasn’t really herself. What difference did it make? If he loved her. They said it did make a difference. She didn’t really believe that. Never had. Then why these absurd defensive thoughts? Was it because, deep down, she wasn’t absolutely certain he loved her?

When she was unpacked, and all her things had been laid away, and her most beautiful nightgown lay at the foot of one of the twin beds, with her nicest mules, Kerrie realized that it was almost eleven o’clock. He’d been gone over two hours!

She lit a cigaret and sat down in the sitting room by one of the open windows, frowning. After a moment, she took up the telephone.

“This is Mrs. Queen,” said Kerrie, thrilling despite herself to the shape of the name on her lips. “Has there been a call, or a message, for me in the past hour, from Mr. Queen?”

“No, Madam.”

“Thank you.”

She replaced the receiver softly and stared out the window.

The short lace curtains were fluttering in a breeze. Outside, there was a U-shaped court. Their two rooms lay along the right side of the U. The windows on the opposite side were dark. But the room nearest Kerrie’s window on the connecting wall of the court was illuminated. The outer wall of that room and of Kerrie’s sitting room met in one of the right angles of the court; the adjacent windows of the two rooms were only eight feet apart along the hypotenuse of vision.

Some one was in that room, Kerrie thought idly; the window was open and she could see on the drawn blind the formless shadow of some one crossing the room.

But then the light went out, and after an instant Kerrie noticed the blind flutter.

No use fooling herself longer. He hadn’t gone for flowers. He could have bought a whole greenhouse in the time he’d been away. He was up to something else. But what could it be? That made sense? Oh, she could cheerfully strangle him!

But perhaps he was hurt. Perhaps he had gone down for flowers, or to arrange for a surprise blow-out, and had been struck by a cab, or had slipped and broken his leg, or... or—

No. That couldn’t be it. She’d know if that had happened. Even if nobody notified her, she’d know. It wasn’t that kind of accident. It wasn’t any accident. He had gone away; he was staying away deliberately.

The truth was that he had proposed to her, rushed her to a crummy Justice of the Peace, married her like a... like a Saturday night binge, driven her secretly into New York for a “honeymoon,” parked her in a hotel room as if she were a piece of... of luggage, and disappeared.

Kerrie caught up the lace curtains on both sides so that the night air might cool her hot face.

Vi... She could call Vi.

No. She’d rather die than do that. Not tonight. Not tonight. Not if she had to sit here by this window like a dressed-up dummy all night, alone!...

At midnight Kerrie telephoned the hotel desk. There was no message. She had known there would be none. But it was something to do.

She went into the bathroom to brush her teeth and rinse her mouth; it felt dry and tasted bitter.

As she was coming out of the bathroom there was a knock on the door.

Her heart jumped. He was back! What difference did it make why he had gone away, or where he had been, or to see whom? He was back!

She ran to the sitting-room door and pulled it open.

Margo Cole smiled at her across the threshold.

“May I come in?”

Kerrie said: “Go away.”

“Now is that nice, Mrs. Queen? Surely you wouldn’t keep me out in the passage?”

“Go away, or I’ll have the hotel people put you out!”

Margo crossed the threshold and gently closed the door behind her.

“I don’t believe you’d fancy a scene just now.”

“What do you want?”

“Are you really married?”

“Yes! Will you go now, please?”

“As soon as I’ve said my little piece.”

“If you don’t go,” cried Kerrie, “I’ll call my — my husband!”

“Do that,” smiled Margo.

They faced each other in a keen, hostile silence.

Then Kerrie said: “You knew,” in a shocked, faint voice.

“Of course I knew, darling! And since the groom isn’t here, I thought I’d console the bride.”

“Where is he?” whispered Kerrie.

Margo walked past her, stalking about the room, staring insolently at the stylized furniture, the cheap prints on the walls, the tinny decorations.

“How did you know he left me? How did you know we were in New York? How did you know we were at this hotel?”

“It was all arranged, my dear,” drawled Margo.

Kerrie went over to the armchair by the window and sat down, fumbling for another cigaret.

“I suppose,” she said calmly, “this is another of your little jokes.” The room was whirling.

“Poor dear,” sighed her cousin. “So brave. Such a good show. Just the same, darling, you’re an ass! You actually married him. I didn’t think even you would be ass enough to do that. But his plan worked!”

Kerrie choked over the smoke and flung her cigaret out the window. “His — plan?”

“Oh, you didn’t know that. Such a pity. Why, yes, dear, it was. Do you recall last night? After your little accident in the garage? When he found you and took you to your room? He remained with you all night — he’s so very clever. But this morning, when your doctor came, your husband-to-be came to see... me.”

“That’s not true!”

“Ask him. He came to see me, and it was his plan you’ve been following today.” Margo laughed. “I knew about your marriage and where you would stop on your ‘honeymoon’ before you did!”

“Get out of here!”

“Not yet, dearest.” Margo rested her gloved hands on the back of Kerrie’s chair. Kerrie could hear her breathing, but she did not look up and around. “Not until I’ve made you see just how big a fool you’ve been. That’s my revenge, darling. You were willing to give up a fortune because you love him. And so you married him. But why do you think he married you? Because he loves me!”

“No,” said Kerrie with a rising nausea. “No...”

“Then where is he on your wedding night?”

“He had to go out somewhere — he’ll be back soon—”

“He didn’t have to go out. I told him to. Men are weak,” Margo smiled, “and I wasn’t taking a chance on your husband’s showing weakness at the wrong moment. You are attractive in a wishy-washy sort of way, you know. So I made him promise he’d marry you and ditch you — yes, the very first night; and he has, you see.”

“I don’t believe — a single word,” whispered Kerrie.

“All the rest was his idea — to marry you so that you forfeited your share of Uncle Cadmus’s estate and it would pass to me. As it has. So you’ve nothing at all, darling — no money, no husband. The money is his and mine now, and you may get a divorce if you like. Not that it will do you the least good — you’ve forfeited your inheritance by marrying! Don’t you agree you’ve been a fool? Such an empty-headed, trusting, ridiculous fool?”

And Margo’s voice sharpened until it hissed through the ache in Kerrie’s head, and without looking up Kerrie knew that her cousin’s white face and Egyptian eyes were hateful with triumph.

And Kerrie said: “I want you to stay here, Margo. I shan’t let you go. You’ll stay here until Ellery gets back—”

“He won’t be back,” drawled Margo. “You may as well pack up and get out.”

“I want to see your face when he denies your lies. I want you to stay—”

“I’d be glad to, my dear, except that I’ve more important things to do, and it would all be so useless, wouldn’t it?”

“If — that were — true,” said Kerrie in a remote voice, “I think — I’d kill him.”

“That would be gratitude!” laughed Margo. “Kill him! You ought to thank him. Don’t you know you owe him your silly life?”

Kerrie barely heard the mocking words.

“You’re a lucky miss. He’s saved you that by marrying you. And if you hadn’t been lucky, you’d have been a dead pigeon long before this. Or didn’t you know that, either?”

What was she saying? thought Kerrie dully.

“Do you think that little visit to your room was a joke? Or that your mare stumbled by accident? Or that what happened in the garage last night happened by chance, or some one’s blunder? Do you?”

“No!” cried Kerrie. “I knew! All along. I knew it was you. You. You!”

“You did?” Margo laughed again. “Clever girl! But it wasn’t only I who planned those attacks. You didn’t know that, did you? It was I — and somebody else.”

“Somebody else!” cried Kerrie, sitting up straight in the armchair.

“I and—”

The world exploded over Kerrie’s head. She fell back in the chair, half-deafened, half-blinded by three incredible flicks of fire.

Behind her she heard a gasp, a gurgling cry, and then the sound of a sliding, slipping body. And finally a hollow thud on the carpet.

Kerrie gripped the arms of the chair and blinked into the moonlit court, and saw the flutter of the blind in that window diagonally across from where she was sitting, only eight feet away, and a hand... a hand, reaching out, holding something, making an odd tossing motion... and something hurtled past her head and landed with another thud on the floor.

And Kerrie got out of the chair and stumbled over Margo’s body lying still on the floor, and mechanically picked up the object, turning it over and over and over.

It was a little pearl-handled 22, and smoke was still curling from its muzzle.

Her revolver. Hers. The one that had been stolen from the pocket of her roadster. Smoking...

Only then did eyes and brain coordinate — only then, as she knelt beside Margo, holding the .22 in a cold clutch, holding it and staring down at the mushroomed splash of red at Margo’s throat, at the red ruin of Margo’s left eye, at the red crease across Margo’s right cheek.

Margo was still. Margo was dead.

Some one had shot Margo three times across the angle of the court from that room with the fluttering blind. Margo was dead.

There was a sound at the door.

Kerrie turned, still on her knees, the revolver still in her hand.

Margo was dead.

And there was her husband in the doorway. So purple-eyed and haggard. Staring at the bloody dead woman on the floor. At the revolver in his wife’s hand.