HELEN KENDAL had taken off her coat, hat, and gloves and was reading a book when she heard a car in the driveway.
She glanced at her wrist watch. Surely no one could be coming at this hour, but unmistakably, the car was turning into the private driveway. Then, as the driver kicked out the clutch and she heard the succession of knocks and bangs which came from under the hood, her heart caught, skipped a beat, then started pounding. She felt certain there was only one motor in the world which was in quite such a state of disrepair, yet still running.
She went quickly to the door.
Jerry Templar was getting out of the car, moving with that slow efficiency which seemed almost to border on awkwardness, yet which somehow managed to accomplish so much. He looked slim and straight in his uniform, and Helen realized the Army training had given him a certain determination, an assurance of his ability to accomplish things which had not been there a few months earlier. This man was in some ways a stranger to her, a familiar friend who had become invested with a new, breath-taking power to affect her life, to make her heart skip beats, then pound wildly.
On no account would she mention the murder or anything of the family complications, Helen decided. He had come tonight, unannounced, to see her. With Jerry, there were more important things to talk about. Perhaps tonight—
“Oh, Jerry!” she exclaimed. “I’m so glad to see you!”
“Hello, darling. I saw lights and thought perhaps you hadn’t gone to bed. Can I come in for a few minutes?”
She took his hand, drew him into the hallway, and closed the door. “Yes,” she said, rather unnecessarily.
Helen led the way into the big living room and dropped down on the davenport. She watched Jerry curiously to see where he would sit. Was he going to the chair on the other side of the fireplace, or was he coming over to her on the davenport? Shamelessly she willed him to come over beside her, but he just stood there in the middle of the room.
“You look tired, Jerry.”
He seemed surprised. “Tired? I’m not.”
“Oh! My mistake! Cigarette?” She held a box toward him.
That did it. He crossed the room slowly, took a cigarette and settled down beside her.
“Where have you been all evening?” he demanded.
Helen’s eyes dropped. “Out,” she said.
“I know that. I’ve called you four times.”
“Twenty cents! You shouldn’t throw money around like that, Jerry.”
“Where were you?” It was almost an accusation.
“Oh, here and there,” she replied evasively. “No place special.”
“Alone?”
Helen looked up at him, and her eyes were mocking. “You’re mighty curious, soldier,” she drawled. “Do all your women sit home every night on the chance you may call?”
“I haven’t got any—women,” he said roughly. “You know I—”
Instead of going on, however, Jerry jumped up and began pacing the floor.
“Where’s your aunt?” he demanded suddenly. “In bed?”
“She was, the last time I saw her.” Then, very casually, “So are Komo and the housekeeper.”
“Your aunt doesn’t like me!”
“Such perception, Jerry! I’m amazed.”
“What’s she got against me?”
There was a silence.
“I guess I won’t answer that one,” Helen finally decided.
There was another silence.
“Were you out with George Alber tonight?”
“It’s none of your business, of course, but as it happened I was with Uncle Gerald all evening.”
“Oh!”
Jerry looked relieved and settled down on the davenport again.
“When are you going to your officers’ training camp, Jerry?”
“As soon as I get back to the outfit next week, I guess.”
“Monday—six days more,” Helen murmured. “You’re not thinking about anything much or anybody these days except the war, are you?”
“Well, there is a job to be done.”
“Yes, but we’ve still got to live,” Helen said softly. If she could only get him to break through that self-imposed wall of silence. If he would only stop being so ridiculously noble, so self-disciplined, and let himself go for once. She turned toward him, chin up, lips half parted. They were all alone in the big house. The ticking of the grandfather’s clock in the hall was loud.
Jerry seemed to steel himself against her. He started speaking, and there was no verbal fumbling. His words were swift, close-clipped. His gray eyes looked into hers with tenderness, but with that determination she had seen so much of the last few days. “I don’t know what’s ahead of me,” he said. “You don’t know what’s ahead of me. There’s a nasty job of mopping up. After that, there’s got to be some face-lifting in the world. Don’t you see that at a time like this a man has to abandon and try to forget some things that mean more to him, personally, selfishly, than anything else in the world? If a man’s in love with a woman, for instance—”
His voice trailed off, as suddenly, from Matilda Shore’s bedroom, they heard the sound of some article of furniture crashing to the floor. Then, a moment later, came the unmistakable thump . . . thump . . . thump of a cane, and the shuffle of heavy steps crossing the floor. The caged lovebirds started throaty, shrill chirpings as they chattered excitedly.
“Your Aunt Matilda,” said Jerry in a hollow voice.
Helen tried to speak, but for a moment her throat was constricted so that the words wouldn’t come.
Jerry looked at her curiously. “What’s the matter, darling, you look scared.”
“That’s—that’s not Aunt Matilda.”
“Nonsense. You can’t mistake those steps. The shuffle-and-thump; and shuffle-and-thump. You can even hear the peculiar dragging sound of her foot when she . . .”
Helen’s fingers clutched his arm. “Jerry, it isn’t she! She isn’t home. She’s at a hospital.”
There was a moment while her words and her fear penetrated into Jerry’s consciousness; then he was on his feet, brushing her to one side despite her efforts to cling to his arm.
“All right, let’s see who it is.”
“No, no, Jerry! Don’t go alone. There’s danger! Something horrible happened tonight. I didn’t want to tell you, but . . .”
He might or might not have heard her. She only knew her words had no effect. With his jaw set, he moved swiftly toward the closed door into the corridor leading to Matilda’s bedroom.
“Where’s the light switch?” he asked.
Helen raced to his side, suddenly aware that Jerry, a stranger to the house, was groping his way through half darkness.
She clicked on the light switch. “Jerry, be careful. Oh, my dear, please . . .”
From behind Aunt Matilda’s bedroom door, there was a silence as though the intruder might be standing still—or might be moving with catlike stealth to surprise Jerry when he opened the door. Only the high-pitched chatter of the lovebirds grew to a hysterical crescendo of bird talk.
“Please, Jerry,” she whispered. “Don’t open it. If someone should be in there and . . .”
He said, “Let go of my arm.”
She still clung to him.
“Let go of my arm,” he repeated, shaking her off. “I may need that arm. Let’s see what this is all about.”
He turned the knob of the door, raised his foot, and kicked it open.
A gust of cold air billowing in from an open window came sweeping through the doorway into the corridor. The room was dark save for the illumination which flowed in from the lighted hallway, an illumination which threw a grotesque, distorted shadow of Jerry Templar along the floor of the bedroom. The birds became suddenly silent.
“The lights,” Helen said, and darted past Jerry’s side to reach for the light switch.
He grabbed her shoulder. “Don’t be a fool. Keep out of this. Tell me . . .”
A stabbing spurt of flame came from the dark corner near the head of Matilda’s bed. A bluish red spurt of flame that was ringed with orange. The report of the gun boomed through the confines of the room. She heard the bullet smack against the door jamb, even as a swift whisper of air brushed her face. She saw the drab darkness of the wood burst into lighter colored splinters as the wood beneath the aged exterior was ripped into view by the bullet. She felt the blast of fine particles of wood and plaster stinging her skin.
Jerry had her shoulder then, was jerking her back, shielding her body with his own.
The gun roared again.
That second bullet hit with a meaty “smok” against something at her side. She felt Jerry’s body, close to hers, spin around in a quick half circle. His hand was reaching out, clutching. Then she was frantically trying to support a dead weight. His legs buckled and he went crashing to the floor, taking her with him.