Odor of Violets, Baynard Kendrick [best short novels .txt] 📗

criminal, Captain Maclain,” he said after a moment. “We have no desire to read her personal mail.”

“Thank you, Inspector.” The Captain extended the notebook toward the girl.

She took it from his hand, glanced at it quickly, and passed it back again. Suddenly she twisted around to face Davis and sat up straight in her chair.

“If you’ll get a stenographer,” she said venomously, “I’ll tell you the truth about what went on last night in Gerente’s room. Cameron’s a rat. He found out that I was seeing Paul—and—and—” Her voice broke and she steadied herself with an effort. “He struck Paul down without giving him a chance.”

Davis’s eyes narrowed. “Go on.”

“It was premeditated murder, Inspector—murder in the first degree. I don’t care about anything now, except to send Arnold Cameron to the electric chair!”

The Sergeant jumped to his feet with astounding agility. “Listen, lady! You better be sure of what you say!”

“Take her outside, Archer, and get a statement.” Davis waved a commanding hand, and waited until Archer and the girl had gone. “Now what the hell did you write?” he demanded of Maclain.

A muscle moved in the Captain’s chin as he handed over the notebook. The inspector stared at it gloweringly.

A murder suspect with a single witness is in a much worse fix than you.

Davis shook his head. “How the devil could that make her switch her story that way?”

“Search me,” said Maclain. He stood up. “I’m afraid we’ll have to go.”

“You’ll get out of here over forty dead policemen unless you tell me what that means,” the Inspector warned him.

“It’s a sympathy note.” The Captain smiled. “A note to bring her cheer. She’s a quick girl, Davis. Almost as fast on the uptake as you. Cameron decided to drag her into this mess—and I, speaking as a friend, implanted the idea in her head that she might make things tough for Mr. Cameron, too.”

“Speaking as a friend,” Davis mimicked. “What ever gave that wise baby the idea she had a friend in you?”

“I’m not quite sure, Inspector,”—the Captain took a step toward the door,—“although I’d give a lot to know. I think it was the ink which Spud put so carefully into my fountain pen this morning.”

“The ink?” said Davis. “What ink, Captain? I think you’d better tell me before you go.”

“The violet ink,” said Duncan Maclain. He sniffed with deep appreciation. “Violet, Inspector—the color of that strange elusive smell!”

CHAPTER XII

HUMANS, THROUGHOUT the ages, have found it comforting to huddle about a fire. Warmth and propinquity minimize life’s tragedies and multiply its joys. Barbara’s disappearance had gathered the Tredwills together in the living room.

Thaddeus Tredwill stood in front of the fireplace gazing at the semicircle of faces which looked to him for leadership in a crisis. Outlined against the leaping flames, his tall aristocratic frame showed gaunt and spare.

Gil’s wife spoke from out of the shadows beyond the group: —

“But it’s too fantastic, Thaddeus. The man’s blind. What does he expect to find with that dog—groping around in Barbara’s room?” Her accent was a shade more noticeable than usual, although her English remained precise and clear.

Thaddeus looked toward his son with an expression which seemed to say, “You answer her, Gil. You brought her here.”

“There’s a State Trooper with him, Helena,” Gilbert reminded her. The engineer, when he spoke seriously, looked much like his father. Both had a high forehead and jutting nose. Both used their hands to make their points clear. Gilbert, on the surface, appeared more stable. Thad had a touch of wildness at times, probably due to his frenzied thatch of whitish-gray hair.

“I’ll bet he’s good,” said young Stacy from his place on the bearskin rug. “I wouldn’t want his dogs after me.”

“Good,” Thad repeated slowly, weighing the word. “Fantastic. Words—words—words.” He gazed down at his younger son. The boy moved uneasily and put one hand in the open mouth of the bear.

“Fantastic,” Thaddeus repeated, and fixed the slightly square face of his daughter-in-law with an accusing stare. “What can be fantastic, Helena, after what’s happened in this house since yesterday?” He swung his head around from person to person with the gesture of a minister daring some member of his congregation to reply.

“I find that my only daughter is consorting with a man.” Thaddeus decided to sum things up for the fifth time, since no one had the temerity to answer him. He paused just long enough to let his audience grasp the full implication of the word man. Few orators could condense more vitriol into a single tone.

“A man,” he reiterated. “My wife’s ex-husband—a brute and a libertine—and everybody knows that he’s seeing my daughter—everybody except me.”

“Nobody knew it, Dad,” said Gilbert placatingly.

“The world knew it—and the press knew it. I suffered the humiliation of having a blind man point that out to me. Now my wife’s been badly injured in her own home, and my daughter’s gone. Where? Who can say?” He broke off with genuine grief in his voice.

“Norma’s awake, Thaddeus.”

Gil moved on the settee to make a place for Cheli Scott, who had come in from the hall.

“I’ll go up,” said Thad.

“I wouldn’t.” Cheli sat down. “Better let her rest. She’s still frightfully nervous. I had Pierce bring her some tea.”

Thad questioned the girl with his eyes.

“She’ll be all right in a day or two,” Cheli told him. “Dr. Trotter said this morning that she’d suffered a shock and a shoulder sprain—”

“I feel guilty as hell,” Gil interrupted morosely. “I’ve been intending for years to move that wardrobe out of the way. It was always tottery.” He turned to Cheli. “You had plenty of nerve to go down there alone last night when you heard that thing fall.”

“I thought that Pierce went with you, Cheli,” Helena remarked, with a smile that missed her china-blue eyes.

“He certainly did.” Cheli crossed her legs and smoothed her house coat over her knee. “Norma was the one with nerve, Helena. I wouldn’t go into that basement alone in the daytime—not