Murder Comes First (24 page)

He stopped, pulled her again against him. At their right was—something. Then he had got a match from somewhere—no, a cigarette lighter—and the tiny light reflected from metal. A car, backed off at right angles to the trail—hidden there—

“Your car,” she said. “The one your wife was supposed—”

“I told you to shut up,” he said, and slapped her across the mouth with an open hand. “Shut up.”

He dragged her around the car; low bushes tore at their clothing, fought to keep them from the car. A whiplike branch, pushed back by him and then released, stung across her face. Then they were beyond the right hand door of the car, and he was opening it, forcing her in. He pushed her under the wheel.

“Get it started,” he told her. “Cut sharp right as you come out. Use the low lights.”

She hesitated. He thrust the little gun against her side, bored it into her side. He said, “Get going.”

She switched on the lights, threw the beam down as he directed; started the motor.

“Cut it sharp,” he said. “Take it slow.”

“There's—there's no road,” she said, and was told there was road enough. The lights showed there was—just enough. “Stay on it,” he told her. “Be damned sure.” He dug the little gun harder into her side.

She let the clutch in, cutting hard to the right; letting the clutch slip as the car moved slowly out of the bushes, turned slowly onto the tracks which had to do for road. She stayed in low, let the car creep along the tracks. It was better not to die here—better to keep alive a little—

Then the pressure of the gun against her was suddenly relaxed and the man beside her made an odd sound—a wordless sound, hardly more than an indrawn breath.

“All right, stop it now,” a voice said. “We're not going any place.”

He had changed his—
no, it was another voice
.

She stopped the car.

“That's right,” the new voice said. A light came on behind them; the beam from a big flashlight. “Sit still,” the new man said, and then the light moved as he, himself, got out of the back seat in which—in which, of course, he had hidden to wait for them. He was beside the car, now the beam full on them. “If you've got a gun, Sandford, I'd drop it,” the new man said. He had an automatic of his own; a much larger automatic. Sandford dropped the little gun.

“Get out, now,” the man said. Then, unexpectedly, he whistled shrilly. “Get around in front where we can have a look at you.”

Sandford got out. The man kept the light on him. “Come on,” he said to Pam. “You too.” She slid across the seat.
Oh, they'd come! After all, they'd been in time!
But—who were they?

She followed Sandford into the area illuminated by the car's headlights.

“Well,” said the medium man—the man who had followed her up Fifth Avenue and back again, and into Saks. “Well, look who's here. So—I was right that time, wasn't I? All right, both you, get your hands where I can see them. Out in front of you, say.”

“But I—” Pam said. “You don't want
me!
”

“Now sister,” the medium man said. “Now sister. Why ever not?”

“Because I'm—” Pam began and stopped. “He was—was making me come along. As a—a hostage or something.”

“Well now, think of that,” the medium man said, in his rather pleasant voice. “Just think of that, sister. Shows how wrong a guy can be, doesn't it?”

She looked up at him, her eyes wide.

“Because,” he said, “I'd figure you were in it with him. Up to your pretty neck, sister.” He motioned. “Right up to here,” he said, and cut with the barrel of the automatic, quickly, across his own throat. Then he pointed the pistol again at them. Then he whistled again.

“O.K.,” a voice shouted from the direction of the cottage. “Got 'em?”

The medium man yelled back. He yelled, “Got 'em.”

“O.K.,” the distant voice said. “Bring 'em along up.”

They left the car, its lights still burning, and worked around it, Sandford first, Pam after him, the man with the gun and the light behind them. They went back the way Sandford had run, with Pam dragging behind him. With each step, Pam's twisted ankle was pierced by pain. Seeing her limp, the medium man moved up to her, half supported her.

They came around the cottage, came to the front door, which was open, with light coming out of it, with a man standing just outside. The man said, “Hello, Sandford. Think you were going somewhere?”

Sandford merely swore.

“Tut tut,” the man said. “Ladies, Sandford. You're pretty little—” He looked at Pam. “My, my,” he said, “what did you run into, sister?”

Pam North pointed at Sandford.

“He,” she said. “He—slapped me.” Then she realized she was crying. “And he killed his wife.”

“Baby wants to sing, Saul,” the medium man said. “Boy, does baby want to sing.”

“That's nice,” Saul said. “That's very nice. Take them along in. We've got quite a little nest of them in here.” His voice hardened. “Quite a nice little nest of lousy spies. Take them along—”

But then he stopped. A car, its headlights blazing, stopped half off the road, blocked by the Logan car. Almost before it stopped, three men were out of it, running toward the house. Saul's hands streaked under his coat and the automatic in the hand of the medium man leaped up.

“Jerry!”
Pam screamed.
“Jerry! Look out. They're—”

The medium man fired and Pam screamed again.

“Saul!” Bill Weigand yelled, and stopped. “Tell your damned G-boy to—”

“Hold it,” Saul said to the medium man, the words snapping. “You're a lousy shot. Look who's here,” he said to Bill Weigand—to Jerry, to Sergeant Mullins. “You boys are right late for school.”

Jerry kept on coming. He had Pam North in his arms. She clung to him, crying.

“Jerry,” she said. “Jerry—they think I'm a
spy!
”

“My God,” Jerry said, holding onto her tightly. “The things you get into! Listen, Pam—”

But then he said nothing, but only held her close and let her cry.

“I tell you,” the medium man said, apparently to Saul. “She was a contact. I figured all along she—”

“It looks,” Saul said, mildly, “as if a lot of people have been figuring.” He looked at Bill Weigand. “Thought you'd get here first,” he said.

Bill looked at Mullins. He looked at Mullins sadly.

“O.K., Loot,” Mullins said. “I got us lost.” He looked at Pamela North, in her husband's arms; he looked at her thoughtfully, as if about to make some rather prodigious comment. But then he said only, “It's sort of confusing in the country, Loot.”

“Right,” Bill Weigand said. He also looked at Pam. He said, “Pam, Dorian—”

Pam nodded her head vigorously. She spoke in a tearful voice, further muffled by Jerry's coat sleeve.

“—s'all right,” she said. “Only—only they probably think she's a spy too.” Then, suddenly, she freed herself. She looked at Sandford.

“You mean,” she said, “he's a spy? As well as a murderer?” Nobody answered immediately. “Goodness,” Pamela North said. “And until just a few hours ago, I thought he worked for the government.” She looked at Sandford further. “I guess,” she said, “because his eyes are so wide apart.” She turned to Bill. “I still don't understand most of it,” she said. “About the telephone and the deep freeze, yes. But—what was it all about?”

“Deep freeze?” Bill Weigand said. “I—” Then he interrupted himself. “Barton Sandford,” he said, “I arrest you on a charge of—”

“Hey,” Saul said, “wait a minute!”

“—homicide,” Bill Weigand finished, and then smiled pleasantly at Saul.

“Mean you hadn't got around to it?” he asked Saul pleasantly. “Well, wouldn't have mattered much anyway, would it? Because, as the inspector says, murder comes first.”

“You mean,” Pam North said, “
our
inspector said that?
Arty?
” Bill Weigand nodded. “Goodness,” Pam said. “Goodness me.”

12

Wednesday, 5:30
P.M.
to 6:45
P.M.

Martini sat on Miss Thelma Whitsett's lap, for reasons explicable only to Martini. It was her custom to sit much on Pam North's lap; often, although less often, on Jerry's. The laps of other humans commonly did not, to Martini, exist; other humans were, at best, to be tolerated if they kept their proper place. But now she sat on Miss Thelma Whitsett's lap, although Miss Whitsett did not greatly want her there. Miss Thelma Whitsett, who did not at all care for cats, sat rigid. She was aware, having been told, that the presence on her of this blue-eyed cat was a compliment; she wished it were a compliment bestowed elsewhere. Without appearing to, she had, a few minutes before, gently pushed at Martini. Martini had turned her head and presented very sharp and white teeth for inspection. Martini had not said anything, or otherwise done anything, but Miss Thelma had decided not to press the matter.

“The idea,” Pam North said, “of thinking
I'm
a spy. The very idea!”

“Nobody does now, dear,” Miss Lucinda Whitsett said. She was in the same black silk dress, or one identical. She was not wearing the pink hat, or any hat. She was wearing a bandage, less spectacular and, on the whole, rather more becoming. “The moving finger writes and having writ—”

She paused of her own accord and looked at her sister Thelma. Thelma's lips parted slightly, but she did not speak.

“—moves on,” Miss Lucinda said. “This too shall, I mean has, passed.”

Miss Pennina Whitsett finished her small glass of sherry, shook her head at Jerry North, and accepted a canapé. She noted that all was well that ended well.

Miss Thelma made a slight movement, inadvertently touching Martini. Martini turned, looked at her darkly and said “O-w-w!” in a guttural voice. Miss Thelma, moving cautiously, sipped from her own glass of sherry. Martini turned away and put her chin thoughtfully on a paw curled to receive it. She partially closed her eyes and looked at Pam North, who had a small adhesive bandage on her upper lip and a scratch, outlined in iodine, on her forehead.

“I do wish,” Miss Lucinda said, “that we knew
all
about it. Goodness. Leaving in the morning for Florida and not ever knowing! Goodness me.”

They knew, Pam pointed out, that Barton Sandford had killed his wife, apparently also with cyanide, and put her body in a deep freezer for preservation. They knew, or were at least certain, that he had killed Grace Logan.

“But not why,” Jerry pointed out, going to mix martinis for himself and Pam. “Or do we?”

“Because she found out about Mrs. Sandford,” Pam said. “At least, I guess so. And that he was some sort of spy or something like that; that the FBI was after him, not part of him. I mean, not he of it. We know he hit Aunt Lucy, or I guess we do.”

“Goodness,” Aunt Lucinda said. “Whatever happened to my hat?”

It had been, Pam told her gently, badly damaged. It had been, shapelessly pink, in a corner of the closet in which Aunt Lucinda had been. Probably, it still was. She did not think even Aunt Lucinda had remembered it.

“I fainted,” Miss Lucinda pointed out. “How could I? Really, Pamela, it was—” She stopped. “But it's not your fault, dear,” she said. “You must have had so many things on your mind. That awful man. I can always get another hat.”

Not, Jerry thought, twisting lemon peel over martinis, another hat like that one. It did not stand to reason. He made no remark, however.

“Speaking of hats,” Pam said, “did you just pull Doctor Crippin out of one? I mean, there wasn't anything else?”

“Of course not, dear,” Miss Lucinda said. “I just said to myself, now what is this like? And then, of course, I thought of Mr. Cripland—I mean Crippin. So I was sure the body must be there and I went to look.” She smiled at Pamela gently. “It was perfectly simple, dear,” she said. “Once you thought of it.”

Pamela North ran the fingers of her right hand gently through her hair. Although it was a gesture rare with her, it had a curious kind of familiarity. She looked across the room toward Jerry, who was coming with cocktails.

“Oh,” Pam North said.

“Perfectly simple, Pam,” Jerry said, his voice grave. “Surely you see that?”

“I—” Pam said, and swallowed. “Is Bill really coming? It's all so—so unsatisfactory.”

Bill Weigand was coming if he could make it, Jerry said, telling Pam gently what she already knew, handing her a glass. He hoped with Dorian; in any case, he had two more cocktail glasses chilling.

“Of course, Pamela,” Aunt Thelma said, looking rather pointedly at the new glass, “it isn't any of my business but—”

The movement occasioned by speech was transmitted to Miss Thelma's lap. Martini almost audibly sighed. Then she turned her head, laid back her pointed ears, and bit the nearer of Miss Thelma's hands. She did not bite to hurt, or even to puncture. She bit to show she could. She then left Miss Thelma's lap, and the room.

“Well,” Miss Thelma said. “Of all things!”

“I always feel,” Miss Pennina Whitsett said, apparently to the canapé in her hand, “that one should not be critical.”

“Well,” Miss Thelma said, “of all things, Pennina.”

“I—” Pam said, quickly. But then the doorbell rang, in a special rhythm. Jerry let Bill Weigand in. Dorian was with him. Gin and Sherry, the former chasing the latter, came to help receive. Sherry stood on hind legs, put her forepaws against Dorian's knee, and—from the sound—wept bitterly.

“Hello, Sherry,” Dorian said. “Hello, Gin.” She looked around. “Hello, Martini, wherever you are,” she said, politely. Then she said, “Pam, I'm sorry about the gun. It was very embarrassing. Bill was quite disappointed in me.”