CHAPTER XXVII

Dr. Harlan looked sharply at Valcour.

“That’s Will,” he said. “He doesn’t know.”

Valcour remained noncommittal. “So it would seem.”

“We ought to go outside and break it to him. We shouldn’t let him come in here like this.”

“Vera!” Will’s voice was stronger. It came from immediately outside the door. “Who’s that talking in your room? Who’s there with you, Vera?”

Valcour caught Dr. Harlan’s arm. “Do not move, please. Stand quite still.”

Will opened the door.

“What are you two doing in my wife’s room?” Sickening fumes from the liquor that had lain on his stomach during his past hour of stupor clawed at the top of Will’s head and pressed viciously against the backs of his eyeballs in what he believed was a deliberate attempt to force them out of their sockets. The rims of his eyelids were hot, grating files, and surges of heat raced across the surface of his skin, to alternate with cold, drenching prickles.

“Where’s Vera?”

“Sit down, Mr. Sturm.” Valcour went over to Will and tried to lead him to a chair.

Will braced himself obstinately and failed to recognize his very good friend. “Who are you?”

“I’m Valcour, Mr. Sturm. Sit down here, please.”

The chair felt impermanently solid. Will sat scrupulously upright in it. He was nervous about this curious top-heaviness that had happened to his body. If he leaned just the least little bit to one side he was sure that he would fall over sideways. Breathing was a nauseating torture and his mouth was an oven set upon baking his tongue. He became dimly aware of the novel outline offered by the sheet. Some fool had covered up something on Vera’s bed with a sheet. It looked as if it might be a body under the sheet.

“Where’s Vera?”

Valcour said quite softly, “She is dead, Mr. Sturm.”

So that was it. Vera was dead and that was her body which was under the sheet. He wished he was dead. Golly, what a hangover. He hoped he wasn’t going to be sick. It would never do to get sick before strangers. Hold on—Fred Harlan wasn’t a stranger. It was this other fellow—telling him that Vera was dead.

“Please don’t be so utterly stupid,” he said.

Dr. Harlan went over and shook him. “Snap out of it,” he said.

Will was belligerent. “Keep your hands off me!” He tried to get up from the chair, but his body was solid lead and his hands dribbled off the seat as he thrust against it. Fumes blinded his eyes completely. They cleared to a painful haze and the sheet began to take form again. “Why is Vera dead?”

“She is dead, Mr. Sturm, because somebody killed her.”

“Oh.” Here was something to digest. Not only was Vera dead but somebody had killed her. Her body was under that sheet. Bromo Seltzer might help some. There was some in the bathroom, but the bathroom was several miles off. So Vera hadn’t killed his father. Someone had killed Vera. “Where’s my father?”

“He is in his room, Mr. Sturm.”

“Does he know about this?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” If his father knew about it there was probably some truth in it. He made another effort to rise and this time got halfway up before falling back again. He couldn’t think of anything for a moment except that he was terribly sick. His stomach felt sick. His head felt sick. His lungs felt sick. Vera was dead. His father knew about it. Her body was under that sheet. “When did she die?”

“About an hour ago, Mr. Sturm.”

“Oh.” When would that be? When would an hour ago be? That ought to be simple to figure out. Now, less one hour, made an hour ago. Thank heavens he had his wits about him. He couldn’t figure unless he had his wits about him. “What did she die of, did you say?”

“Somebody killed her with a knife, Mr. Sturm.”

“Why?”

“We do not know.”

“Nonsense! People don’t do that sort of thing indiscriminately.” The word was a triumph, and Vera was dead. What a triumph that was. No, no—mustn’t be unsporting. Certain things one didn’t do. Things Sturms never do. Never. Never were unsporting about the dead. Who was dead? Oh, yes, Vera. His stomach was a sewer. Pack of liars, all of them. Vera was a liar. She was the worst liar of the lot. She’d even lie about being dead. This time he made it. He was out of the chair—some swift and unsteady steps—the sheet ripped roughly back.

Valcour caught him and dragged him away from the bed. Will started to vomit. Dr. Harlan caught his other arm, and he and Valcour hurried him from the room. Will’s voice rang in a frenzy through the shocked hall: “Vera! Vera! Vera!”