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Authors: Mignon Good Eberhart
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didn’t?”
“Sui—” began Ancill and then said, “Yes, sir,” and slid away.
“Suicide!” said Beatrice. “He was not a man to do that. It couldn’t be suicide.”
Dr. Blakie glanced at her.
“Could be,” he said remotely. “Probably wasn’t. Anyway, the police won’t believe it. But we’ll try suicide—the weapon was still there.”
“Look here,” said Rob suddenly. “Marcia found him like that, and she was alone when she found him. We’ve got to fix up something before the police get here. They’ll—they’ll fasten it on her.”
Beatrice looked at Marcia, opened her mouth, closed it again. Dr. Blakie said quietly after a moment, “Just what happened, Marcia? Tell it more clearly.”
“It—I was leaving—going to Verity’s—I was late, I came downstairs—the library was dark; the hall was dark. No lights anywhere, so I couldn’t see him. I came into the library and—heard something moving —”
“What?” That was Rob.
“I don’t know. Just something moving. Like a cat or dog or something on the carpet. I turned on the light, and Ivan was there. He—he wasn’t dead. He opened his eyes and told me to call the doctor and to—pull out the knife.”
Rob said swiftly, “And did you?”
“No—I tried to, but I couldn’t. He—he died—just then. I couldn’t.”
“Oh, my God, she’s touched it. Her fingerprints—”
“Now, Rob, don’t!” Dr. Blakie put a restraining hand on Rob’s shoulder. “Pull yourself together. It was the natural thing to do, of course. What are you doing?”
“I’m going to wipe off the fingerprints. What did you do with the knife?”
“My own are on it, too,” said Dr. Blakie reasonably. “Fingerprints won’t prove anything except that the man’s wife and doctor both tried to remove the knife.”
Beatrice was staring steadily at Marcia, a look of deep scorn and disbelief in her white face. She took a sudden step forward, as if about to speak, and then mysteriously said nothing.
“But the fingerprints are there,” said Rob. “And it’s—a danger. Where is the knife? Oh, I see.”
It was on the table where the doctor had placed it, shining under the light. Stained and wet at its tip.
Dr. Blakie lifted his neatly tailored black shoulders in a gentle shrug. “Perhaps you’re right. Go ahead and wipe the handle. Then I’ll pick it up and put some more of my own on it. Otherwise—I mean, if there are no prints on it— they’ll know that we are trying to protect somebody, and that alone will point suspicion, start them inquiring about motives. Not, of course,” he interpolated, with a quick look at Marcia—“not that Marcia had any motives, but you never can tell where a thing like that is going to end.”
Ancill came to the door again.
“There’s a squad car in the neighborhood,” he said. “They said it would be here at once. And they said— ” he looked straight over their heads—“they said not to touch anything, sir. To leave things exactly as we found them.”
“I see,” said Dr. Blakie. “Thank you. Now if you’ll just get a sheet—”
“Yes, sir.” He went away noiselessly. Rob sprang to the table, whipping out a handkerchief. He had the knife in his hand and had turned with his back to the others when Verity said from the doorway: “What are you doing, Rob? How is Ivan—” Then she saw Ivan and stopped suddenly and caught her breath so sharply it was like a scream.
And in that frozen, still moment, with the moist black night beyond the windows a background for Verity’s blanched face and her pale blue gown with its train clutched in one of her small, rigid hands, they heard, off in the distance, eerie and human through the soft night, the sound of the police siren, coming nearer.
Coming nearer because Rob had killed Ivan Godden with a knife that they had got for dandelions.
And Beatrice had found her with her own hands on the knife and had said, “How could you have done it,
“Sui—” began Ancill and then said, “Yes, sir,” and slid away.
“Suicide!” said Beatrice. “He was not a man to do that. It couldn’t be suicide.”
Dr. Blakie glanced at her.
“Could be,” he said remotely. “Probably wasn’t. Anyway, the police won’t believe it. But we’ll try suicide—the weapon was still there.”
“Look here,” said Rob suddenly. “Marcia found him like that, and she was alone when she found him. We’ve got to fix up something before the police get here. They’ll—they’ll fasten it on her.”
Beatrice looked at Marcia, opened her mouth, closed it again. Dr. Blakie said quietly after a moment, “Just what happened, Marcia? Tell it more clearly.”
“It—I was leaving—going to Verity’s—I was late, I came downstairs—the library was dark; the hall was dark. No lights anywhere, so I couldn’t see him. I came into the library and—heard something moving —”
“What?” That was Rob.
“I don’t know. Just something moving. Like a cat or dog or something on the carpet. I turned on the light, and Ivan was there. He—he wasn’t dead. He opened his eyes and told me to call the doctor and to—pull out the knife.”
Rob said swiftly, “And did you?”
“No—I tried to, but I couldn’t. He—he died—just then. I couldn’t.”
“Oh, my God, she’s touched it. Her fingerprints—”
“Now, Rob, don’t!” Dr. Blakie put a restraining hand on Rob’s shoulder. “Pull yourself together. It was the natural thing to do, of course. What are you doing?”
“I’m going to wipe off the fingerprints. What did you do with the knife?”
“My own are on it, too,” said Dr. Blakie reasonably. “Fingerprints won’t prove anything except that the man’s wife and doctor both tried to remove the knife.”
Beatrice was staring steadily at Marcia, a look of deep scorn and disbelief in her white face. She took a sudden step forward, as if about to speak, and then mysteriously said nothing.
“But the fingerprints are there,” said Rob. “And it’s—a danger. Where is the knife? Oh, I see.”
It was on the table where the doctor had placed it, shining under the light. Stained and wet at its tip.
Dr. Blakie lifted his neatly tailored black shoulders in a gentle shrug. “Perhaps you’re right. Go ahead and wipe the handle. Then I’ll pick it up and put some more of my own on it. Otherwise—I mean, if there are no prints on it— they’ll know that we are trying to protect somebody, and that alone will point suspicion, start them inquiring about motives. Not, of course,” he interpolated, with a quick look at Marcia—“not that Marcia had any motives, but you never can tell where a thing like that is going to end.”
Ancill came to the door again.
“There’s a squad car in the neighborhood,” he said. “They said it would be here at once. And they said— ” he looked straight over their heads—“they said not to touch anything, sir. To leave things exactly as we found them.”
“I see,” said Dr. Blakie. “Thank you. Now if you’ll just get a sheet—”
“Yes, sir.” He went away noiselessly. Rob sprang to the table, whipping out a handkerchief. He had the knife in his hand and had turned with his back to the others when Verity said from the doorway: “What are you doing, Rob? How is Ivan—” Then she saw Ivan and stopped suddenly and caught her breath so sharply it was like a scream.
And in that frozen, still moment, with the moist black night beyond the windows a background for Verity’s blanched face and her pale blue gown with its train clutched in one of her small, rigid hands, they heard, off in the distance, eerie and human through the soft night, the sound of the police siren, coming nearer.
Coming nearer because Rob had killed Ivan Godden with a knife that they had got for dandelions.
And Beatrice had found her with her own hands on the knife and had said, “How could you have done it,
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