Read Online Fair Warning by Mignon Good Eberhart - Free Book Online
Authors: Mignon Good Eberhart
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them. He’d had them removed and lamps put in. Well, then, where was the nearest lamp? And don’t be silly, nobody’s going to clutch at you out of all this blackness. There’s nobody here. Walk over to that chair and turn on the light.
She crossed the threshold, and at once all light was gone.
But there was something in the room. Something that moved a little somewhere—below her it was—on the floor — what —
It was the dog, Bunty. No, Bunty was gone.
But the thing was moving again.
She tried to cry “Ivan”; she tried to speak; her hands encountered slippery cold leather, and she reached frantically into the darkness and found the lamp cord and jerked it.
“Ivan!”
He was there.
On the floor. One of his hands moved aimlessly up and down along the carpet. And a knife with a shellacked wooden handle projected from a patch of wet redness just over his heart. He opened his eyes and looked at Marcia and said in a kind of mumble, “Get Graham—quick—take this out —”
“Ivan!”
His eyes were blank and bright and commanded her. “Take it out!” he gasped, and under that terrible command Marcia put her hands on the thing which was oozing red there upon his white shirt front. It was a knife, sharp and two-edged. A knife she had seen before. “Pull,” he whispered, and his eyes fluttered and closed. Marcia, crouching there with her hands frozen to the handle of that knife, saw him die.
Nothing moved in the room, not even the shadows. She might have been alone in the house.
Rob had killed him, then.
As he said he would do.
Rob—oh, Rob, no. Anything but this!
She didn’t hear the french doors open.
She didn’t move as Beatrice paused for one dreadful instant and then screamed, “Ivan!” and ran across and flung herself down opposite her, with Ivan between them.
“He’s dead,” she cried. “He’s murdered! How could you have done it, Marcia!”
CHAPTER V
S OMETHING HAD ENTERED THE Godden house which was never to leave it. Entered or perhaps had been there, bred long ago and coming slowly into secret being.
And in the first dreadful moment of its being it changed the faces of all familiar things, making them strange and full of obscurely terrifying significance, as in a nightmare. The brown leather chair, the worn carpet upon which she crouched, the white head of Caesar looking down with sightless eyes—all of it was different, had sentience, and in that sentience there was threat.
“He’s—dead,” said Marcia whispering.
Beatrice’s long face was blazing white; she leaned across Ivan and seized Marcia’s shoulders.
“How could you have done it!” she cried, shaking Marcia as if to force words from her. “You have killed him!”
The long loops of green ribbon dangled from her shoulders, and one of them swung across Ivan’s breast and Marcia stared at it.
“Your dress,” she said numbly. “You are staining it—I didn’t kill him. Let me go.”
Beatrice’s iron grip on her shoulders tightened, then she released her so suddenly that she flung Marcia backward against the chair.
“Who would have thought you had the strength to do it!” she said in a queer kind of contempt, and bent over Ivan again, and felt along his outflung wrist.
What for? A pulse, of course. But Ivan couldn’t be dead—he had just spoken to her. Marcia said in a queer high voice, “He can’t be dead. He spoke to me. He said to call Graham Blakie.”
Beatrice gave her one swift look.
“Did he say anything else?”
“No—yes, he told me to pull—to pull out the knife.” She was shuddering all at once and sick.
“I see. So that’s your story. How long—when—oh, it doesn’t matter! Telephone for the doctor, quick. Not at his home, at Verity’s. Hurry. They can do things, you know. It seems to be straight through his heart. Telephone, I said!”
Marcia was staggering to her feet, getting entangled in her chiffon skirts, obeying as was her habit.
“No, wait,” said
She crossed the threshold, and at once all light was gone.
But there was something in the room. Something that moved a little somewhere—below her it was—on the floor — what —
It was the dog, Bunty. No, Bunty was gone.
But the thing was moving again.
She tried to cry “Ivan”; she tried to speak; her hands encountered slippery cold leather, and she reached frantically into the darkness and found the lamp cord and jerked it.
“Ivan!”
He was there.
On the floor. One of his hands moved aimlessly up and down along the carpet. And a knife with a shellacked wooden handle projected from a patch of wet redness just over his heart. He opened his eyes and looked at Marcia and said in a kind of mumble, “Get Graham—quick—take this out —”
“Ivan!”
His eyes were blank and bright and commanded her. “Take it out!” he gasped, and under that terrible command Marcia put her hands on the thing which was oozing red there upon his white shirt front. It was a knife, sharp and two-edged. A knife she had seen before. “Pull,” he whispered, and his eyes fluttered and closed. Marcia, crouching there with her hands frozen to the handle of that knife, saw him die.
Nothing moved in the room, not even the shadows. She might have been alone in the house.
Rob had killed him, then.
As he said he would do.
Rob—oh, Rob, no. Anything but this!
She didn’t hear the french doors open.
She didn’t move as Beatrice paused for one dreadful instant and then screamed, “Ivan!” and ran across and flung herself down opposite her, with Ivan between them.
“He’s dead,” she cried. “He’s murdered! How could you have done it, Marcia!”
CHAPTER V
S OMETHING HAD ENTERED THE Godden house which was never to leave it. Entered or perhaps had been there, bred long ago and coming slowly into secret being.
And in the first dreadful moment of its being it changed the faces of all familiar things, making them strange and full of obscurely terrifying significance, as in a nightmare. The brown leather chair, the worn carpet upon which she crouched, the white head of Caesar looking down with sightless eyes—all of it was different, had sentience, and in that sentience there was threat.
“He’s—dead,” said Marcia whispering.
Beatrice’s long face was blazing white; she leaned across Ivan and seized Marcia’s shoulders.
“How could you have done it!” she cried, shaking Marcia as if to force words from her. “You have killed him!”
The long loops of green ribbon dangled from her shoulders, and one of them swung across Ivan’s breast and Marcia stared at it.
“Your dress,” she said numbly. “You are staining it—I didn’t kill him. Let me go.”
Beatrice’s iron grip on her shoulders tightened, then she released her so suddenly that she flung Marcia backward against the chair.
“Who would have thought you had the strength to do it!” she said in a queer kind of contempt, and bent over Ivan again, and felt along his outflung wrist.
What for? A pulse, of course. But Ivan couldn’t be dead—he had just spoken to her. Marcia said in a queer high voice, “He can’t be dead. He spoke to me. He said to call Graham Blakie.”
Beatrice gave her one swift look.
“Did he say anything else?”
“No—yes, he told me to pull—to pull out the knife.” She was shuddering all at once and sick.
“I see. So that’s your story. How long—when—oh, it doesn’t matter! Telephone for the doctor, quick. Not at his home, at Verity’s. Hurry. They can do things, you know. It seems to be straight through his heart. Telephone, I said!”
Marcia was staggering to her feet, getting entangled in her chiffon skirts, obeying as was her habit.
“No, wait,” said
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