Snow Shadow (16 page)

I was tempted to take a seat beside him, aware as ever of that courtesy, which always awoke in me a feeling of security, born as it was from the familiar manners of Aunt Otilda's world. Still there was something about him now, as if he had made an effort to disengage himself from the others, which warned me off. His eyes had not met mine for long. Rather, they had slid past me quickly, and there had been no welcome in those.

Hanno Horvath, a black band decorously stitched about the sleeve of his brown tweed jacket, arose from a chair too small for his leonine bulk and nodded his head in my direction. His countenance was as stubbornly somber as ever.

A little beyond him, Irene perched on a straight backed seat as if arrested in mid-flight. Her unwillingness to be there was plain. Only Anne Frimsbee had any semblance of ease, her plump feet planted on a footstool, her hands loosely folded, as if she were a
spectator at a play she had been assured would be fascinating.

I was not, after all, last to arrive. For I had no more than sat down when the Sergeant ushered in two others. Theodosia halted just within the doorway. Under her makeup she looked not only sick but aged, her lower lip caught between her teeth as if to stifle a protest pride would not permit her to utter. Though Blake and Gordon flanked her, she had a strange air of being alone.

Sensing her isolation, I could not stand it. I went to her and drew her with me to another settee, facing Donner's. She came docilely enough, never glancing at the two who had entered with her.

Gordon Cantrell looked as frozen as his wife. That youthful air which had supplied much of his charm had vanished. The face now so exposed was weak and the eyes glassy. He stood where he was until Blake near pushed him into a chair. Then the sergeant handed the lieutenant, who stood on the edge of the hearth, a large manuscript envelope.

“It was there right enough, sir. Under the driver's seat in the car.”

“How careless.” Daniel's voice held a jaunty ring, in bitter contrast to the uneasy atmosphere of the room.

Theodosia's hand fell on the cushion between us, and I covered it with my own, in a gesture I hoped would be reassuring. But the lieutenant, to my surprise, did not continue. It was Hanno Horvath who asked:

“Is that what you have been hunting, then?”

“Yes.”

“And it is a forgery? Made to deceive my aunt?”

“We shall have to let the experts decide that. However, judging by the past deals this group has pulled, it will probably be bogus. What about it, Mr. Donner?” Daniels opened the envelope, took out some sheets of plastic, each of which enclosed a page of paper, yellow, worn at the edges, apparently old. He handed one to the expert in old books. “What's the chance of this being the real thing?”

Preston Donner left the sheet lying on his knees as he brought out reading glasses and put them on. Something, his inner warmth, which had drawn me to him at our first meeting, had been snuffed out. He was tired, and looked old now, wearing his years heavily. When he held the sheet closer to the lamp, his hand shook a little. His precise voice was low-pitched—it sounded different—

“Without further tests I cannot give any opinion, Lieutenant. If this should prove authentic it would be close to priceless for the right collector. The first draft of
Pride and Prejudice
as was written under the title of
First Impressions.
I think a great deal could be asked for it. However, I would require some very rigid tests.” He passed back the sheet, almost as if he wanted it out of his hands.

“How much
did
you expect to get?” Daniels asked Gordon Cantrell in a whip-crack voice.

Gordon's expression—or rather lack of one—did not change. “I didn't hide it, if that's what you mean. I knew nothing about it.”

“Did you ever consider, Lieutenant—” Theodosia's
hand in mine twitched as she spoke, but her voice was perfectly even—"that he may be telling the truth? We never kept the garage locked.”

“So that anyone might have used your car for a hiding place without your knowledge? That is naturally the explanation Mr. Cantrell is going to use. But we have ways of checking. Now.” This time he swung upon Hanno Horvath. “You are the one who introduced the Lowndes woman into the house. Were you aware of her background—that she had a legitimate claim on the Austins?”

“What!” Anne Frimsbee lost her. pose of spectator. She stiffened, her small eyes open to their widest extent. “What claim could she possibly have on us?”

Daniels paid her no attention. He was still eyeing Hanno, as if to force the answer he wanted out of the big young man. “Did you know that she was not Miss Lowndes at all?”

“I knew she was married—and divorced, if that's what you mean.” Hanno's calm remained unruffled. “She was a valued assistant in the company—I had known her overseas. There was no reason for me to question what she told me concerning her past. But—” He suddenly shot an openly malicious glance at Gordon Cantrell. “I was by no means her only dupe—nor her latest. She used me to introduce her around here. But I was only one of her men. And of me she wanted comparatively little. You can check that, too—you probably have—and you know what I say is true.”

“Lieutenant!” Anne Frimsbee interrupted for the second time. “I want you to explain just what you mean
by saying that Leslie Lowndes had some sort of a claim on my family!”

“Not Leslie Lowndes,” he corrected, “Leslie—Blackmur.”

16

The only definite reaction I could see came from Anne. Her mouth dropped a little open—she might be gasping at some effrontery.

“Elinor Austin,” Daniels continued, “married Blackmur, your father's secretary. He was killed in a car accident three years later. Leslie was the only child of that marriage.”

Anne bristled. “We know nothing about that,” she declared shrilly. “My father was very angry with Elinor. She deceived him shamefully. We never heard from her after she eloped with Harlon Blackmur. Father made us all promise never to have any contact with her.” She paused—then she asked: “Is Elinor still living?”

Daniels shook his head. “Your sister died, Mrs. Frimsbee. She was near destitute. She had been unable
to work for some time prior to her death.” He glanced around the room as if he were assessing it and the scale of life it represented.

Its furnishings were, of course, well out of date. The one-time opulance was gone, well dulled by time. But it still had the atmosphere of security and solid comfort which had impressed me. This whole house was a symbol of one-time wealth, and not all of that glamour had been dissipated.

“The circumstances under which Mrs. Blackmur died appear to have embittered her daughter. I think she instigated this particular deal in a desire to bleed from the Austins some of the money which she thought should have been used for her mother, knowing also if she were discovered it would make a scandal for the family.”

“This was all
her
plan then?” demanded Anne, who appeared to consider herself spokesperson for the company.

“We cannot be sure—there are loose ends. But as far as we can discover she met Roderick in Europe and pumped him about the family. Perhaps she had nothing definite in mind then. She may have just been looking for something to use to her advantage. She had apparently worked with Newson from time to time. He was always on the lookout for just such a situation as Dr. Edwards’ will and the trust fund.

“Provided with what Roderick could tell her, she saw not only a chance to score off the family she hated, but to give Newson an opening over here—”

“Who is Newson?” Hanno Horvath asked.

“That is a good question,” Daniels nodded. “He is
behind this present trouble, but it is certainly not his first deal by any means. For some years he has run rackets dealing with faked antiques. Anyway, Leslie settled in here. Then she had to deal with Mrs. Horvath, who had been made the trustee.”

“Not so easy, that,” Hanno commented. “Miss Emma was not the type to be influenced by a woman, especially one of Leslie's sort. They were really too much alike, ready to ride over those who tried to oppose them. Was that why Roderick was brought in—to play the penitent and snare Miss Emma's interest? This Newson—I suppose he could not play the charmer's role?”

“Newson made a point ordinarily of keeping away from any action in progress.”

“Always Newson—” Hanno glanced around at our company. “Now I wonder—” He hesitated and then was silent for a moment before he changed the subject.

“Was Roderick penitent? Did he come to charm Aunt Emma, then?” Hanno did not look at Gordon Cantrell, but there was something spiteful in his tone.

“We can't tell about that now. It may be that Leslie made some slip, and Roderick arrived purely on his own to do some fishing in troubled waters. It was apparently the sort of thing which would draw him.”

“May we guess that once here Roderick chose to play his own hand?” Hanno asked. “Then Leslie disposed of him? She was never one, I think, to tolerate a double-cross. But why the trick with the coffin?”

Daniels now turned directly to Gordon. “Suppose you explain. You had a part in that, didn't you?”

“Leave me alone!”

Theodosia's hand turned in mine and gripped so tightly I almost cried out. She was rigid, watching Daniels as one might watch a growing menace.

“You're lucky,” Daniels said, “that there is a witness to get you off the hook for Leslie's murder. Or you might have had to answer some questions about that also—”

“Shut up!” Gordon was on his feet, his face an ugly mask of hate and weak anger. “Shut up! I'm not going to listen to this—” He turned on his heel and left the room.

The lieutenant made a signal, and Blake was quick to follow Cantrell. Theodosia loosed her grip on me and arose.

“Is he under arrest?” she asked in a voice so remote that she might have been inquiring about the weather.

“He may be—”

“I believe I have the right to call a lawyer for him.”

“True, Mrs. Cantrell.”

It seemed to me that she winced when he called her by that name. But she held her head high, and no shadow of any emotion was visible on her face.

“May I do so now?” She had already half-turned to the door. Someone stood there—my hand clenched on the arm of the settee.

It was Mark, his dark face as impassive as ever. But there was a strip of gauze taped over one cheek.

Beyond me someone moved, a swift movement, quickly checked. Theodosia stepped aside and he came in to stand beside Daniels. From his pocket, he brought out what looked like an oversized wallet.

“Newson is a careful man,” he announced, “but he
has not been involved in any direct action for some time. He had, he thought, graduated to the place where he would be always the planner, not the doer. But he did keep a personal file.” Mark touched the wallet he had laid beside the sheets of disputed manuscript. “He could believe he had escaped us—that dodge of wearing a white ski suit and mask, of lying out in the snow until the hunt had spread beyond him and then using
our
tracks to get out—clever. It did win him time which was what he wanted. Unfortunately—fire sometimes plays freaky tricks. This was not destroyed.”

The last sentence was directed to only one of us. My gasp of sudden understanding was covered by that other's voice, colorless, different in tone.

Just as Preston Donner had also vanished before our eyes, the man in gray had dropped that personality like a worn coat. He who sat across from me was a stranger I would have sworn I did not know—nor had I. It was not that he had been disguised, in the general sense. It was rather as if by some inner change of will he could emerge another person in an instant.

“A pity.” His voice was different and I again gasped—how could he have so learned to alter that? This was the speaker I had heard with Leslie—even though he did not whisper now. “You are right.”

He and Mark might have been alone in the room.

“I made the error of taking a hand in the action myself. The sign of senility, I suppose—”

Anne Frimsbee started out of her chair.

“Preston!” Her voice was pure protest. “Why—”

He shrugged and smiled. No more Donner. The protective coloring of the rather fussy gentleman, perhaps
in his sixties, had entirely sloughed away. Ruthlessness and sharpness broke through outward mask of gentility.

“Money, my dear Anne. Money—and of course a certain interest, a gambler's interest, if you will. I am afraid I betrayed my cloven hoof, which is also my downfall, in my desire to show that I could still pull off a trick such as this. With me it is not altogether the money—it is also the game, and of course the things money can buy. Certain comforts, little luxuries, grow more important as one ages. Then also—one begins to wonder if one is slipping—if one
can
still match one's subordinates. Pride goes before a fall—I am afraid I allowed pride to rule my judgment.

“Donner has been a useful role over a good many years, one of my better other selves. I have been proud of Donner in the past. And this seemed just the exploit for him. Emma would have accepted my verdict on any manuscript. It was as if I were taking a sabbatical here—able to devote my time meanwhile to another idea—” He laughed. “But it is not necessary to go into all that. That piece of planning, alas, now may never come to fruition. But my cover was very good—ah, pride speaking again!” He shook his head. “I must learn to note my weaknesses. Anyway, Emma came to me at once when Roderick first approached her.

“Up to that time I was not aware of all the ramifications of Leslie's little deal.” Now his face took on grim tightness. “I knew of the trust, of course, and I had considered to myself about dipping into it. But my final decision had been made that the return might be too small to bother with. Leslie came to me here. She had
earlier suborned one of my technical assistants—an artist, a vertible artist in forgery. She told me her little tale.

“Leslie wanted my help. I was at loose ends for a space before my own plan would develop. I agreed. She knew my word meant a quick sale. With Miss Emma growing older, there was a chance she might die and the trust be put under more discerning control. I had kept Donner as an alternate personality for a good many years—Edward Austin was not the only client who trusted him implicitly. I had made my position above suspicion. So I agreed in a moment of weakness—”

“You did not bargain on murder,” Mark commented. “Then you were involved—”

“True. I have ever eschewed any close touch with violence.”

“But this time—”

Donner or Newson nodded. “I have taken care of my people. They know I abhor both violence and any double-cross. Leslie plunged me into murder, then dared to refuse me the evidence which I must destroy to cover us.” He nodded to the manuscript pages. “With those out of the way—” He shrugged. “Then—there was other evidence—which I was able to handle better. But she had visions of blackmail.” His smile now was only a baring of teeth. “You may have that.” He gestured to the wallet. “But I assure you that is nothing beside what I took care to see go up in flames last night!”

“Shall we go?” Daniels moved towards Donner. The
man, with a second shrug, arose and started to the door.

Mark made no move to follow. I wanted to go to him, assure myself that he had taken no worse hurt than the one he showed. Theodosia now left—and I, suddenly unsure as to why, followed her.

“Where's the phone?” she asked.

I took her down the hall.

“Do you know who to call?”

“John Billings, I suppose. He doesn't take—criminal cases. But he ought to be able to advise me.” She went to dial. As I started away, she called over her shoulder:

“Please wait—”

“Mr. Billings? Not there? Have him call—” She gave the number of the carriage-house phone. “It is urgent.”

Then she asked me a question I was not prepared to answer.

“What is there between you and Colonel Rohmer, Erica?”

“Nothing.” I made my answer as firm as I could. “We knew each other some years ago. But I have not seen him until now—”

“He has influence, I would judge. Oh, I know Gordon is worthless. I've known for years that he played around.” She had shaded her eyes with her hand, but there was no betraying note in her voice. “It's because he's weak that I can't just walk out on him now. If I did that I'd put myself on his level.”

“But—”

“But I can't go on with him? Is that what you are
too polite to ask, Erica? Well, maybe that's true. I'll have to make sure. Only what I do now and what I shall decide to do later, those are two different things. Gordon is innocent of murder. Daniels will probably arrest him—but there's other ties in this. Donner—Newson—he seems to be more important. Maybe Mark Rohmer can do something, if Gordon turns state's evidence. Will you speak to him and find out, Erica?”

I did not want to. But I did not know myself very well anymore. Last night I seemed to have passed some barrier and come out into a new existence. I was frightened—more than a little. This was too intense—this feeling inside me now.

“Theodosia.” I selected my words with care, to make what I was saying convincing not only to her but to myself: “To tell you the truth, we are not on friendly terms. I had ample proof years ago that I meant nothing to him. And maybe if I tried to speak for Gordon, the very fact that
I
was the one to do it might prejudice him.”

Theodosia was staring at me.

“You are either a stupid liar or a blind fool!” Her voice was hot with anger, and she pushed past me as if I had ceased to exist.

Her response shook me. I wanted now to assure her that I would do what I could for Gordon—not that it would help. But she was already gone—out the back way towards the door which gave on the garden walk.

I heard steps behind me. Mark, and over his arm a coat. Not mine, but he held it for me to slip on. I gathered up a scarf trailing over the table where the tin
of ginger had once stood. The experiences of the past twenty-four hours had done nothing to enhance my claim to any looks. But I knew that I must go with Mark and face squarely what lay between us, since he had chosen this way.

As he climbed in the waiting car, I caught a glimpse of Anne Frimsbee at the door. Then we were on our way, and I could not suppress a sigh of relief.

“What were you doing on Saturday, the twenty-fourth of August—need I say the year?”

I had expected anything but such a forthright and instant attack. But I had an answer which arose as if I had framed it ahead to be used on just this occasion:

“I might ask you the same thing!”

Emboldened at my ability to meet his first sortie, I turned my head a little to catch a glimpse of his dark face. But I only saw the bandage.

“Mark—that burn—how bad is it?”

“Nothing to shed tears over.”

As if I were, I had, I told myself furiously. No, I would not give him advantage by again showing any concern. We drove in silence along the snowy street Then I guessed Mark's chosen destination and I was bitterly angry.

He pulled in at the inn. I hoped it would be closed because of the weather. But his perverse luck held and we were ushered into the dining room where we were, at this hour, the only guests. It was just the same. Only then it had been summer—now it was winter.

“You have no right to do this!” I was goaded into speech as the waiter left us.

“Perhaps not.” His ready agreement, when I expected
the opposite, was disconcerting. “There is never any harm in trying, though. What did happen on that Saturday, Erica?”