The Unsuspected (14 page)

Francis put both hands over his face.

Tyl thought,
Francis is more upset than Oliver, even. She thought, Poor Althea, how could she make a mistake and die? She thought. Oh, my poor Grandy!
Pity and grief wheeled around, tumbled each other in her consciousness and yet hardly roused her. They were pale images of coming emotions, only their mental shadows.

But Francis' hands were hiding a black and deadly anger, full grown.

Chapter Eighteen

All afternoon people came. Tyl was still encased in an aching paralysis that hadn't yet sharpened to pain. It didn't occur to her not to remain in the long room, not to stay there and bear it She was there, and people came—Grandy's friends—and she stayed and watched and listened numbly.

Grandy was in his big chair. No tears, no sighs, no break in the rich gentleness of his voice. He made kind little inquiries of his friends about their daily affairs. Ever so gently, he kept his grief private. The assumption was that it lay too deep for tears. Tyl saw more than one turn away from him with a convulsed face. It was so beautiful a performance, such a touching thing.

Grandy's friends. Personalities, all of them. They would go to him and receive his gentle greeting, his sweet questions. Then they would go to Oliver, who was in the room, although he seemed not to know where he was exactly, and only stammered “Oh, hello,"

and "Thanks" and "Yes" or "No," stupidly. Then they would come to Tyl and Francis, who was there beside her, and they would congratulate her, weakly, on being alive. They muted their joy in her return in deference to the death in the house. It was as if they were

all saying. Too bad. He's lost his beauty, though of course he's got this one back. Too bad."

Althea would be a legend. The lovely girl with the silver eyes who died so young.
She'll never grow old,
Tyl thought,
but stay young and lively in their memories. They will forgive her for everything. Well,
she thought,
I forgive her.
 

Francis was introduced as Mathilda's husband. It didn't seem to matter. It was too hard to explain now. Too involved and fantastic. Let it go.

Francis was taking a good deal on himself. It was he who, when the emotional pressure got too high, knew how to break the fever. When Schmedlinova made a gliding run all the way down to Grandy, wailing like a Russian banshee, it was Francis who made

a cynical aside and steadied Mathilda's jumping heart. It was Francis who sat at her elbow to say the right thing when she couldn't think of what to say at all. She found her eyes meeting his over people's heads. They seemed to have suddenly acquired a full code of signals that went easily between them. It was he who rescued Oliver from the poet who kept quoting, when Mathilda asked him to with her eyebrow. He took slobbering old Mrs. Campbell away before Mathilda screamed. It was his shoulder she found behind her when a sudden wave of fatigue sent her reeling backward. It was Francis who told her quite rudely, at six o'clock, to go upstairs and lie down. It was Francis who brought her a tray, who pulled the comforter over her feet, who dimmed the light. Lying on her bed, weary and numb, she supposed, with dull surprise, that Francis had been acting very like a husband.

When Jane got off the train at seven thirty, Gahagens men were there to meet her. They took her to his office without telling her why. It was obvious that she hadn't known what had happened to Althea. She nearly fainted when they told her. In fact, Gahagen was

alarmed and called the doctor. The girl was badly shocked. It was no fake, either. Gahagen was sorry that his duty had led him to distress her. After all, the poor little kid didn't know anything, had nothing to tell them, sat there twisting her hands, looked dazed and unhappy. Gahagen sent a man to run her up to Grandy's house.

Francis had taken so much on himself that it was only natural for him to meet her at the door and put his arm around her.

What they exchanged under their breaths was not much, because Grandy's voice said, "Is that Jane?" and people leaned around the arch to say that Grandy was asking for her. It was only natural that Francis should keep his arm around her and lead her to Grandy's

throne.

It was a lovely scene. The yellow-haired child in the powder-blue suit with the little white collar kneeling there. Dear old Grandy bent over her so tenderly. And that tall, good-looking Howard man, standing there with Jane's little blue cap in his hand, that he'd picked up when it fell. The long room was quiet.

"I know," Grandy said. "I know, child. I know." His voice was soft and sympathetic, and it didn't change as it went on to ask, "What were you doing in the garden last night with Francis?"

Jane cut a sob or two. Francis, standing by, looked perfectly blank. He felt himself to be within the range of Grandy's eyes, although those eyes were kept on Jane. He struggled for blankness.

Jane took down the handkerchief, revealed her tousled face, all lumpy with weeping. "Oh, Mr. Grandison, I didn't know you knew. I'm sorry."

"Sorry about what, dear?" They were speaking low. The people in the room couldn't hear what they were saying. It all went for part of the tender little scene.

"He only had an hour," wept Jane. "It wasn't anybody's fault. I told him he shouldn't have come and tried to see me, but, seeing that he had, I couldn't just tell him to go away. So I thought it wouldn't really. . . disturb you.”

Grandy said, "You re telling me it wasn't Francis?"

"Oh, no," said Jane. "Of course it wasn't. It was a—a boy I know. I'll never do it again, sir. I'm so sorry."

Grandy said, "But, my dear, I was not complaining. I was curious, y'know. Next time bring him indoors, child. We are not ogres."

Jane began to cry again, as if such kindness were too much to bear.

Francis said, "What's this about? Something to do with me?"

"Tyl thought she . . . saw you," Grandy said, with a curious little break of hesitation and doubt. His eyes turned. Not his head.

"Tyl did?" said Francis. He kept his face blank, turned his eyes, not his head. Too bad. Tough on Mathilda, but the kid would have to put up with this. It looked as if Jane had really fooled him. But at any rate, Tyl's evidence on what she knew or saw was tending

to seem more and more unreliable.

Jane was getting to her feet. Francis took her arm. He said kindly, with just a trace of absent-mindedness, "Hadn't you better come along upstairs and wash your face or something?"

In her room they faced each other. "Well?"

She said, "I got it."

"What we thought?"

"Yes." She told him rapidly and rather mechanically. "I listened to it myself. Told them a wild story about a bet. I got a girl there to listen with me, as a witness. Got it cold, and it's what we want. The Phantom Chef said 'Burn tenderly' only once in that record, and he

said it at ten thirty-five."

"Fifteen minutes." Francis struck his palm with his other fist.

"Yes" said Jane. There was no triumph.

"And Rosaleen hanging since the fuse blew at ten-twenty. That's proof."

"Yes," said Jane.

"Proof!" Francis was bitter and old again. "Jane, he's the devil. How can we fight the devil? That tongue of his, the power of it! He molds the thoughts in people's heads with his tongue, Jane. Their brains melt. He makes them think what he wants them to think.

They're all his puppets. And he's the great director. Look at him now. He's killed twice, committed two murders, and everybody is down there weeping for him."

"Did he . . . kill Althea too?"

"Of course he killed Althea!" swore Francis.

"I couldn't tell Gahagen tins alone, but now—"

"Oh, yes, we will now take our nice neat proof to the police," said Francis. "What proof?"

"The time, the radio, the record—all of it. . . . Fran, what's the matter?"

"I can swear Althea told me what she heard on the radio and when she heard it. But you realize . . . Althea isn't here any more."

"You mean we can't—oh, Fran—can't prove it?"

"If I had another witness—"

"Lie then," said Jane fiercely. "IH say I heard her tell you."

"When?"

"Any time you say*

"You were in the house with them."

"Then you'll have to say she told you some other time."

"When?"

"Oh, I don't know."

"Not you, Jane. Not you, anyhow. It's too dangerous. Maybe you fooled them. All the more reason to keep you out of it now."

"But I'm not out. Why is it any more dangerous?"

"For God's sake, anything's dangerous, anything near him! It's dangerous for us to stand here and talk. It's dangerous to look sidewise at him. I stuck my neck out this morning. Maybe he'll chop my head off before dawn."

"Fran!"

"Why not? He must be on the track of why I'm hanging around here. He must know by now. He's too smart not to see my motive sticking out like a sore thumb. Oh, he's caught on. I hope he hasn't caught on to you. He's quick too. No sooner did he realize that the

police knew a fuse had blown . . . Althea's snuffed out. Quick. Neat. No fuss, no bother. Althea was quietly assisted to her grave, all right. And no nasty little loose ends this time, either."

"But you think—you're sure he did it?"

"He did it." Francis dropped his hands. His voice was sick. "But I can't prove it. There's no proof at all. And if he knows now what I'm after, I expect he'll arrange to deal with me."

"You're different," said Jane sharply. "You're no girl."

"True," said Francis. "True. Just the same, if anything does go wrong—"

"Oh, Fran!" Jane shivered.

"Remember Grandy's back-door caller?"

"Do you mean Press, the garbage man?"

“Yes.”

"Why?"

"Because," said Francis thoughtfully, "he comes to the back door. And I'm young and strong."

"I'll remember," said Jane. "But what are you going to do?"

"See here. No matter what happens, don't let anything make you admit you're ... on my side. Mind that, Jane. Promise. Never mind, I've got a better idea. You go home. Resign, Nobody would blame you."

"But what are you going to do?"

“I'll try a bluff."

"What do you mean?"

"I'll insist I've got a witness to what Althea told me. I'll spread out the whole case against him. Pretend it's complete. Maybe I can bluff him. I've got to try. If I could only catch him off guard. Let him make one slip of that tongue! Don't you see, Jane, it could add

just enough— You be in there and we—" He broke off.

"I'm not going home," said Jane. "You see, you need me."

"But how am I going to protect you? How can I protect Mathilda?"

"Mathilda?"

He was impatient. Couldn't she see Mathilda was in the most dreadful danger? Couldn't she realize, as he did so clearly, that some one of these days that proud head, those long lovely legs, the exciting green eyes, the whole lovely, bewildered girl, could die? If the old man took a notion—

"Yes, damn it, of courser he cried. "Look, he's got to get rid of her someday. How am I going to be sure she's safe? She thinks the world of him. She'd do anything he asked, any time. Won't stop to think, because she's clinging to him now. Because she's got to believe in something! And, dear God, how can she believe in me? It's driving me"—he calmed down—"a bit wild," he confessed.

"But he wouldn't dare!"

"Jane, he's more dangerous than you know. He's what Rosaleen said. Perfectly selfish. There's nothing to make him hesitate."

"Can't we go to the police now?"

"Yes, try it. Maybe Gahagen will listen. I wish we had the cold proof. Jane, Grandy'll talk himself out of what we've got. My word's going to be less than enough, after the lies I've told. I don't see how Gahagen can listen."

Jane looked at his face and nearly wept

"Unless— After all, he's guilty," said Francis. "And he's got guilt in his mind and a mixture of lies and truth to remember. He could slip. Its the only thing I can see to try. Attack. With all I've got. Bluff him down. So," he said rather softly, “I'll try . . . one more

legal way."

"What do you mean?"

"Maybe you'll have to go outside the law to get the devil."

"Fran!"

"Sh-h."

Grandy was coming up the stairs. They slipped Jane's door tightly shut and stood without breathing.

If he was coming in here— If he were to find them whispering together—

Luther Grandison was near a violent death just then, as he walked placidly past the door where it was waiting and went into Mathilda's room instead.

Chapter Nineteen

Nor did he know that Francis went like a cat out Jane's window to the kitchen-porch roof and that he clung, tooth and nail, in the angle the house made there outside Mathilda's window or that he watched, one foot on the sill, cheek on the house wall, fingers wound in a vine. Grandy didn't know. Francis couldn't hear. Through the glass he tried to read across the dim room those thin, mobile lips through which the voice was pouring.