Lighted Windows, page 15
“Why not let Mrs. Hale stay where she is?”
“Don’t talk like a child, Janice, an’ you a married woman. Even if it wasn’t hard for Mary an’ me to be trotting there from here, a man’s cabin is no place for a widow.”
She cautiously twisted her foot free of the comforting hands. Grimaced as she pulled on her stout shoe.
“I hope the Lord lets me swap my feet for wings the minute I get to heaven. Leave the rest of the geraniums for the boys to plant and come pack up your things. Want M’s. Hale settled before lunch time. Those officials being here make more work, but don’t they make life thrilling?” Her eyes snapped, her cheeks flaunted red flags of excitement.
“Who do you think did it, Miss Martha?”
“They haven’t asked me yet. P’raps they think because my joints are stiff the arteries of my brain are hardening, but they’re not. I’m not sayin’ anything till I can say it before the right parties. Did you hear that plane go out? They’ve sent for a finger-print expert. Expert! They’d ought to have questioned me first.”
“When I heard the ariplane zoom, I thought the criminal was escaping.”
“That would be confessing, wouldn’t it? The party who snuffed out Joe Hale is too scared or too clever to confess. I haven’t made up my mind yet which. I haven’t read the newspapers for years without learning something.” Her voice prickled with excitement. The girl saw her wince as she entered the Waffle Shop.
“You are doing too much, Miss Martha. If you won’t let me take care of Mrs. Hale, let me help in the kitchen. I can cook.”
The elder Miss Samp gripped a chair-back for support, held her twinging foot under her to relieve it of weight.
“Mother used to say, ‘Marthy, if you really want to help me, do things as I want them done, not as you want to do them. If you’re willing to cook, child, cook for Mr. Bruce. He’s been livin’ on the greasy stuff Pasca—house-boy, he calls himself—dishes up, when he doesn’t come to the Waffle Shop. He’s the dynamo of this outfit, spiritual, moral an’ mental. It isn’t often you come across a man like that. Make it your job to keep him well an’ happy an’ efficient, an’ he’ll steady us all through the tryin’ time that’s ahead.”
“Will the investigation take long?”
“If they follow the clue they’re trailin’ now, I guess you an’ me’ll be waiting on the angels long before they’ve got at the truth.”
From the dormitory floated a bugle call:
“All you little doughboys come and get your chow!”
“Sakes alive, they’re calling the men to dinner and me standin’ here talking.” She limped hurriedly kitchenward.
In her own cabin, gazing out at the Stars and Stripes floating high and strong in the clear air, Janice faced two alternatives. She could allow Millicent Hale’s “I’m free! Free! If you’d only waited!” to fester in her memory until she became a hateful, unhappy person who would be sent out on the next boat amidst a silent chorus of “Thank God she’s gone!”—it was human nature to dodge a person with a grievance—or she could take up her life from the time Bruce had said, “I’ll get your sandals,”—go on from there as though the rest of that evening never had happened.
Once she would have chosen, the first way, but one couldn’t live for weeks in this northern wilderness, under the protection of that flag, without growing spiritually. She had come north for independence, with a determination to master the imagination which all her life had hobbled her, had set her fear complex to functioning. It would take a big inside resistance to withstand the bitter pressure of Millicent’s implication. Could she do it? She must. Trial companionship was a test of good sportsmanship as well as marriage. One didn’t whimper, “I won’t play!” at the first suggestion of friction.
It was not surprising that the Commissioner had given Miss Martha an impression of inefficiency, Janice concluded as after the midday meal she entered the office. She regarded him from under long lashes, as he sat behind a small table examining papers. He was the antithesis of all the prosecuting officials she had seen on the screen. He was bland and fair. His eyes met hers. Steel drills, Tubby had said. That was a weak comparison. They had seemed to wrench open the secret drawer of her mind. The deputy beside him was small and wiry, with a bristly black mustache at which he gnawed in moments of excitement. Bruce Harcourt was at his desk, Grant at his. Through the open window came the clang of metal, the drill of riveters, the rattle of steam-shovels, the yapping of huskies, the smell of the sea. Business as usual, in spite of that silent, shrouded figure in the Hale cabin. From where she sat she could see the Waffle Shop, the dormitories, and, looming like a lookout tower, the radio station. Far away on the horizon a crater smoked steadily. The sun which gilded the serrated mountain-top paved the office floor with golden flags. The radiant noon was mellowing into shimmering half-tones.
Janice glanced surreptitiously at Harcourt. Two little lines cut deep between his eyes as he bent a supple ivory letter-opener back and forth with his strong fingers. Did he know that she had moved the remainder of her possessions to the H house? What he could not know was that upon entering his cabin she had flung open doors and windows to clear the atmosphere of the sophisticated perfume Millicent Hale used, of her personality.
Had the Commissioner spoken to her? She met his gimlet eyes. Perhaps he even knew what she had been thinking. To borrow from Tubby, she wouldn’t put it past him. She removed the elastic band from her notebook with a professional snap, ground her pencil in the sharpener on her desk with businesslike proficiency.
Tubby Grant opened the door to the wood-shed. Kadyama shuffled into the room. His coarse black hair was greased down, his copper-color face was close shaven. The sardonic slant of one eyebrow, the tilt of his mouth seemed accentuated. His flannel shirt was of fire-department red. A gold-nugget pin was thrust into a blue-and-green tie. Black-and-white suspenders were the visible means of support of his baggy trousers. An exquisitely carved silver belt obviously served no utilitarian purpose. In obedience to a curt word from the Commissioner, he perched on the edge of a chair. Only his eyes moved as he waited, motionless as one of Dallin’s bronze Indians.
“You’ve threatened to get Hale, haven’t you?”
Evidently the official believed in the attack direct. Kadyama’s eyes sought Harcourt’s. He responded to their question.
“Tell the truth. Lying won’t help you. You have said you would get Hale, haven’t you?”
“Ump. I say that one, two, p’raps tree time.”
“Why?”
The Indian’s eyes, beady as a trapped rat’s, shifted to the Commissioner’s face. “He steal Tatima.”
“Well? She’s not your squaw, is she?”
“She promise to marry on me. She work for Meester Hale. She say she lak dark mans no more, she lak gol’ hair.”
“Where were you yesterday?”
“Workin’ roun’.”
“Where?”
“In mornin’ cleanin’ out hangar. Chief fly off in plane, Pasca say, beeg chance to make order.”
“Did that take all day?”
“No sirree. Word come dat chief marry. Mees Samp seesters, they sen’ me to woods. I cut everyt’ing green. Bring to H house.”
“What did you do then?”
“I put ’em roun’ room.”
“Yourself?”
“Mees Hale come an’ Meester Chester. Bruder, seester, dey work togedder, oder mens come too.”
Snap! The ivory cutter in two pieces clattered to the floor. Each occupant of the room started as at a pistol shot. The deputy quivered like a steel spring, protested petulantly:
“Don’t do that!”
“Sorry!” Harcourt’s voice was apologetic, but his eyes shone with laughter as they met Janice’s before he bent to recover the scattered pieces. His smile seemed to clear the air which before had been heavy with tragedy. The Commissioner asked:
“Were Mrs. Hale and Chester in the H house all the time you were?”
“No sirree. Meester Chester go first. Say to her, ‘You feenish,’ She sen’ me for more green. W’en I come back—she gone too.”
“Gone, had she? Where were you last night?”
“Squaw-dance.”
“Was your girl friend”—he amended—“was Tatima, this girl you expect to marry, with you?”
“No. She stay at Waffle Shop for beeg marriage party there.” He qualified, “She come to dance late, stay long night through.”
“You said first that she wasn’t there.”
The Indian’s scowl was savage. “You t’ink you pretty damn smart fella, catch me, huh.”
The Commissioner tipped back in his chair. “I not only think I am, I know I am. Bring in the girl.” The order was like the crack of a whip.
Tatima swaggered in, head back. Her face had the curious color dark skin has when drained of blood. Black hair, parted and brought down over her ears, shone like satin. Defiance did not quite camouflage the fear lurking in the depths of her glowing eyes. She flung back the brilliant Yakutat blanket from her shoulders. Her gay print dress clung to her warm body, brought out lines and curves. Her blue beads glowed with the depth and beauty of Burma sapphires. The pupils of the Commissioner’s eyes contracted.
“Have a good time at the Indian dance last night?”
Tatima straightened. “Who, me? Me go to Indian dance?” Her contempt was superb. “I stay at Waffle Shop all night, help Mees Samp seesters clear up after marriage party.”
XIV
Silence like a spell settled on the room. The Commissioner’s eyes bored into Tatima’s smoldering with defiance. The deputy gnawed furiously at the bristle on his upper lip. Kadyama sat in rigid immobility. Harcourt frowned thoughtfully at the Indian girl. Janice nervously drew hieroglyphics on her pad. Grant cracked his knuckles. The deputy jumped.
“Don’t do that!”
His petulant voice snapped the tension. The Commissioner grinned at Kadyama.
“Me! Pretty damn smart fella, what? Get out. I’ll send for you later.” He waited until the glowering Indian had closed the door behind him before he motioned to the chair.
“Sit down.”
Tatima favored him with a disdainful glance. “Who, me? I stan’ up.”
“Suit yourself. You work for Mr. Hale?”
“Who, me? I work for Mees Samp seesters.”
“What do you do there?”
“Wait on table. Wash deeshes, sweep, do much t’ings. Work hard.”
“Yet, you had time to take care of Mr. Hale’s cabin?”
She tossed her head, set her lips in a heavy red line of defiance. Harcourt commanded:
“Answer the Commissioner’s questions, Tatima. We all know that you worked for Mr. Hale. Tell the truth.”
She regarded him from under lowered lids. Hunched her fine shoulders.
“Who, me? Tell truth? You not like it p’raps much as you t’ink. I tell. I work for Meester Hale.” A spasm of feeling twisted her face. She bit her lips. A drop of blood stained her teeth as she went on. “I tak’ care of cabin w’ile Mees Hale gone away.”
“Been there since her return?”
“One tam, p’raps.”
“Remember losing this?”
The Indian girl bent forward to stare at his extended hand. In the centre lay a blue glass bead. She clutched at the string about her neck. Inscrutability veiled the fright which had flamed in her eyes. She drawled:
“Lose bead two days ago. Same tam she there.”
With a nod she indicated the girl at the typewriter desk. Janice felt the color mount to her hair as the four men looked at her. The Commissioner laid a restraining hand on Harcourt’s knees as he started from his chair. He asked blandly:
“You mean that young lady at the desk?”
“Sure, I mean she. Meester Hale he phone for her to come. Say he have secret letter. First he send Mees Hale to Waffle Shop. Mees Trent come. He tell her letter. He tell her she beautiful. After w’ile he say, ‘I kees yo’ han’s. I—’ ”
“Tatima!”
With the exclamation, Janice was on her feet. Livid, furious, Harcourt was on his. The Commissioner’s voice cut like a razor.
“Sit down, both of you. Don’t mess this testimony up by getting on your ear, Harcourt. Sit down and let’s get on with it.” As they subsided into their respective chairs he suggested:
“Didn’t like Hale to tell Miss Trent that she was beautiful, did you?”
“Who, me? I not care. He say to her, ‘You run away from marryin’. Kees an’ run kin’.’ An’ she say, to keep to bees-ness. He talk more, much more. Then beads break. I busy peeking them up. I hear no more.”
“Didn’t hear Miss Trent’s voice again?”
“Ask much questions, don’t you? P’raps you t’ink Tatima some leetle detecter. I hear her speak outside, that all. She speak very mad to Meester Jimmy Chester, ’fore he come in.”
“Chester! Did he come into the cabin?”
“Sure, he come. He say very loud, ‘W’at you mean sending for Mees Trent, Joe? Try any funny business an’ I’ll shoot.’ An’ then Mees Hale come in an’ say, ‘W’at you doin’ with that pistol, Jimmy? Joe’s frightened!’ An’ then she laughed an’ laughed ’sthough she didn’t know what she doin’, an’ I went to Waffle Shop an’ wash deeshes.”
“You didn’t see Mr. Hale again alive?”
Tense silence. Silence as haunted as though an impalpable presence drifted in their midst. Outside the clang of riveters, the shouts of men, the bark of a husky, a fly spatting listlessly against the window. Inside tick-tock, tick-tock, the wall clock marking time for the quick procession of the minutes, like a drum-major at the head of a regiment. Tatima cast a terrified glance behind her as though a reminding hand had been laid on her shoulder. Her voice dwindled to a strained whisper.
“Who, me? I not see heem again, never.”
“That’s all. You may go.”
She swung out, head up, the Yakutat blanket trailing from one hand. The Commissioner watched her till the door closed. Made a note on his pad.
“You take stenographic notes, don’t you, Grant? Take Miss Trent’s testimony.”
Harcourt was on his feet. “She’s not Miss Trent. She’s my wife. Why should she be dragged into this? What possible connection can she have with this case?”
The Commissioner looked up at him thoughtfully. The deputy stopped gnawing his mustache long enough to nod approval as his superior protested:
“Sit down, sit down. We can’t play favorites.” He looked at Janice. “Sorry to bring you into this, but I want to hear about your visit to Hale’s cabin.”
“Visit! You mean my business call? Mr. Hale phoned me to come and take a letter from his dictation.”
“What was the nature of the letter?”
“It wasn’t a letter. It was a strictly confidential matter.”
“Mm. I see. Even so, you’ll have to tell.”
“It was the codicil to a will.”
“Codicil! Did he sign it?”
“I don’t know. I put it in shape and sent two copies to him by one of the men.”
“You have your notes?”
“Yes.”
“Make a rough draft for me when we get through this afternoon. While you were at the Hale cabin, what happened?”
“Tatima has given an exact account. She has missed her vocation. She should go in for reporting.”
“You are satisfied to let her version stand for yours at present?”
Was the man trying to fasten the crime on her, Janice wondered. His eyes seemed to bore into her brain.
“Quite.”
“You met Chester as you went out?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say to you?”
“He asked what I was doing in Hale’s cabin.”
“And you answered?”
“That it was none of his business. The suspicion in his voice made me furious.”
The Commissioner was apparently absorbed in the curlicue he was designing. “Did you have any conversation with Chester in regard to the matter later in that day or in the evening?”
“No.” Had the relief that she could answer the question honestly in the negative shown in her voice, Janice wondered in panic. The questioner’s pencil stopped as his eyes drilled into hers.
“Mm! All the next day you were away from headquarters, I understand. There was a party here in the evening. Did you dance with Chester?”
“Yes.”
“Did he mention your meeting of the day before?”
“Yes. He apologized for his manner and I explained why I answered as I did.”
“You parted good friends?”
“The best.” Thank heaven that was over! She had squeezed by without telling what Jimmy had said in reply.
“Was that all that was said?”
Her assurance crashed. Good grief! She wasn’t under oath, she hadn’t sworn to tell the truth, the whole truth. She would say nothing which could incriminate nice Jimmy Chester. She smiled engagingly at the Commissioner.
“Anything more would have been anti-climax, wouldn’t it?”
His smile was bland, too bland. “You were in the H house when Mrs. Hale came last night, weren’t you? Sorry to remind you of what must have been a gruesome intrusion on your happiness, but I want to know what happened.”
“I have told you what happened,” interposed Harcourt savagely.
“I want her version of the episode. Want all sides of the case. We shall question Mrs. Hale. I understand that she is at present too upset to answer sanely. Go on,” he nodded to Janice.
“We were sitting by the fire talking when someone beat furiously at the door. Mrs. Hale stumbled into the room. She was breathless as though she had been running. She braced herself against the wall, tried to speak. Mr. Harcourt said ‘Steady, Millicent. What has happened?’ Her eyes were wide with horror as she called out, ‘Joe’s dead! Shot!’ She pitched forward to the floor.”
“You can remember nothing more that was said? See who’s knocking, Grant.”
Janice’s eyes met Harcourt’s. He must be intensely relieved that she had been reprieved from answering that question. Tubby Grant opened the door. Martha Samp stood on the threshold. The black cat rubbed against her skirts. In the sunlight her rusty-gray hair gave the effect of a sprouting halo. In one hand she held a box. It might have been spun glass so cautiously she carried it. Her faded eyes sparkled. Her cheekbones burned red as stop-lights. Harcourt rose.
