The Impetuous Mistress. George Harmon Coxe
Читать онлайн книгу.
he had left Frieda on the floor screaming at him; all he knew was that his car was outside, that the convertible was gone, that the woman on the floor had a white suit and blond hair.
There was no doubt in his mind. The first impression told him with a horrible certainty that Nancy must have come in while Frieda was still here and that Frieda, already gripped in a fit of fury and frustration, had killed her.
He wanted to cry out and his throat stayed closed. He put out a hand to steady himself. He pushed with that hand, forcing himself to move and, weak-kneed, he kept moving.
“Nancy!” he cried, his voice a ragged whisper. “Nancy.”
Then, somehow, he was on his knees, the wonderment growing in him that the white suit he had seen from the doorway was in reality not a suit but a dress. The hair was blond but not as long as Nancy’s. The face, in profile, was too thin.
Only then did he realize his mistake and know beyond all doubt that this was Frieda, and now, as some odd relief mixed with his horror, he saw the bruise on the throat, the scarf that had been cruelly twisted to leave a thin blue line in the skin.
The eyelids were closed and still. The distorted face had a bluish tinge beneath the tan, and the painted mouth was open. The straw handbag was open beside one outstretched hand, its contents spilled. It was when his glance moved on that the shadow of some movement caught the corner of his eye, and now, swiveling on one knee, he saw Nancy standing in the doorway to the inner hall, her eyes wide, her palms pressed hard against the sides of her taut white face.
3
FOR the next few agonizing seconds there was no sound in the room and neither of them moved. Out on the highway a car raced past and the sound of a girl’s laughter drifted through the open door and served to break the spell that death had woven. Rick found he was holding his breath and let it out. He swallowd to loosen his throat.
“Nancy,” he said huskily. “My God, Nancy!”
He pushed up from the floor and his knees were stiff. “Nancy,” he said again, his voice quiet now, and with that she uttered a small cry and ran to him and flung her arms about him and held on hard.
“Oh, Rick,” she wailed. “I was so frightened.”
He could feel her tremble against him, hear the muffled sobs as she buried her face in his shoulder and reaction shook her. For a little while longer he did not know what to do or what to say. His glance came to the straw bag and he found himself checking the contents—the lipstick and keys and tissues; the cigarette case and gold lighter; the compact which had been jarred open to spill traces of powder on the rug.
Finally he took a breath and put his hands on her shoulders. He pushed gently and when she lifted her face he saw the dark lashes were matted and the green eyes wet. Still holding her shoulders he pushed her still farther from him and steadied his voice with an effort.
“What happened?”
“I—don’t know, Rick. There wasn’t any car outside and I thought—”
She swallowed and tried again.
“She was like that when I came in. I didn’t know what happened. I didn’t touch her but I saw her face. . . . Her face, Rick,” she said, her voice breaking again. “All twisted and blue and—”
“All right.” He made his voice sharp to blot out such memories and make her concentrate. “I know how you must have felt, but right now we’ve got to think. Come here.”
He led her to the nearest chair and pushed her gently back into it. He stepped over to the table and poured some brandy into the clean glass. He told her to take a swallow and waited until she had obeyed.
“Now,” he said. “Think, darling. How long were you here?”
“Not more than a few minutes.”
“How many? Four, five?”
“About that.”
“Which way did you come from, the Sound side?”
“The other way.”
“You didn’t see anyone near here or any car?” He watched her shake her head, seeing the color coming back into her cheeks and aware from her frown that she was trying to think. “So you came in and found her just like that. You didn’t touch her. Was there anything else—”
He stopped as a peculiar look came into her eyes. “Maybe I just imagined it,” she said slowly. “But I was standing there looking down at Frieda and not knowing what had happened or why and I thought I heard something.”
He waited, some new tension intermingling with his thoughts. “Like what?” he said.
“Like—well, it might have been a door closing. . . . Please, Rick, I’m not even sure I heard it. I could have imagined it; I could have imagined almost anything the way I felt.”
“But you thought it was a door. Then what?”
“It sounded as if it came from somewhere out back and I started to look. I don’t know what made me. If I had stopped to think, if I’d had any sense, I would have screamed and run out the front door.”
Rick swore under his breath, not knowing whether all this was imagination or not but understanding that she had done a very foolish thing. In spite of himself his mind raced on to conjure up the frightening picture of what might have happened, and the question he asked had but one answer.
“You didn’t see anything? Or hear anything more?”
“I went down the hall to the back door. I didn’t dare look into the bedrooms. By then I was too busy telling myself it must have been my imagination. I was standing there by the hall doorway when I heard the front doorknob rattle and I didn’t stop to think it might be you. I didn’t know who it was. I just ran back into the bedroom.”
Rick understood this much, for he too had jumped to conclusions about the body on the floor when he found the convertible gone and his sedan standing in its place. Now, aware that this was not the time for speculation, he took the glass from Nancy and asked if she wanted more brandy before he put the bottle away.
“No. . . . What’re you going to do?”
“Call the police.”
“Yes, I guess you have to.” She stood up and took the bottle and glasses from him. “I can put that away. I’ll rinse the glasses.”
When he had been connected with the state police barracks he said what he had to say and then, as he put the telephone down, he realized that there was another call he had to make.
Frederick J. Brainard knew his daughter was coming here at nine. In the course of investigation the police would notify him. They would get his opinion of Rick Sheridan, would hear of a relationship that had been unfailingly unpleasant, would know why he wanted a divorce. Better then to tell him the shocking news by telephone and let him come tonight.
He had to look up the number and when he had his connection he had to identify himself before Brainard could be summoned. Even then Rick could feel the hostility in the blunt voice.
There is no easy way to break such news, no kind words to lessen the shock. Rick did as best he could, speaking hesitantly, using the words that came to him and hearing the spoken questions and reactions that were first unbelieving, then suspicious, and finally crushed.
“But strangled,” Brainard said when he could accept the fact that his daughter was dead. “How could this happen? Who did it?”
“I don’t know,” Rick said. “It happened while I was out of the house. When I came back I found her on the floor. I’ve already called the police.” He paused and the silence came to be broken by a single word that had a savage inflection.
“No!”
“What?”
“It didn’t just