Escape the Night Read online

  “How’d you happen to hear about it?” asked Dave.

  Bill by that time had settled himself back again in the seat, so his reply was muffled by the sound of the engine.

  “Alice told me. I phoned to her and then saw her when I went to get the car she’s loaning me. Loaning me!” said Bill with a bitter tone in his laugh. “How do you like that! Your own wife, loaning you a car to use!”

  “She’s not your wife,” said Dave.

  “Oh, I know. We’re divorced. But you don’t stop being married, just like that. She told me all about it—Luisa and everything.”

  Dave didn’t reply. Bill seemed to settle back into the silence and darkness behind them.

  Eventually they began to ascend the steep and winding road to the Condit ranch above the ocean and above the Monterey peninsula.

  The ranch was really outside the peninsula. As the police (Anderson, in point of fact) said later, “We don’t need a map. We know that whoever went to Casa Madrone and killed Leda Blagden, had to get there somehow, and we know the only way to get there, which was by car.”

  But he got out a map just the same and pointed.

  The fabled and lovely land of the Monterey peninsula is actually roughly a square, with the Presidio of Monterey and Hotel Del Monte (one of the luxury hotels of the world) at the northern, landward corner of the square. The village of Carmel, low and white and green, with the hills beyond and the blue sea beside it, supplies the southern landward corner. The peninsula is not a true square, for the ocean corners are pulled out, so to speak, both toward the north and Point Pinos, and toward the south and Cypress Point. Around the three ocean sides of this irregular square, and each of these three sides is longer and more irregular than the direct road between Monterey and Carmel, runs a famous drive, the Seventeen Mile Drive, with its amazing and breathtaking views of the blue Pacific. The shore line, as everywhere along the coast at that point, is rocky, and the surf a seething mass of foam.

  There are irregular points of rocks that jut out into the sea; and there are small coves, one of them Still Water Cove, just between the Lodge—which is an offshoot of the Del Monte Hotel but on the other and southern side of the peninsula and directly upon the bay of Carmel—and the village of Carmel, is one of the loveliest bays in the world, in its protected, still and tranquil blue.

  On the northern side of the square is Monterey bay with its fishing fleets. Monterey itself is part old Spanish town and part new and modern California. With the exception of the village of Carmel and the Presidio of Monterey, almost the entire remaining peninsula is closed to public traffic and is guarded by three Lodge Gates, the Country Club Gate at the north, the Hill Gate which is only a few miles above Monterey, and the Carmel Gate which leads directly into the village. The Lodge lies within these boundaries, several golf clubs, and many charming country houses, Spanish in type for the most part, and most of them commanding views of Carmel bay.

  In the hills directly across the road between Carmel and Monterey are other houses, with their gardens, their views, their plans for gracious living. Ranches and houses also lie above Carmel, along the valley road back into the mountains and along the coast—after one passes the old Mission, yellow and quiet in the sun, the white and beautiful Carmelite convent, and the dark, thrusting tongue of Point Lobos.

  Perhaps because of its extraordinary beauty, perhaps because of something indefinable in the sun, in the rain, in the brown hills, or the black rocks, or the sea, there is an other worldness about the peninsula. It is a Shangri-la, a world apart. Its stars are low and eerily bright. The tule fogs rise up from the ground gently, like veils. Its nights have a balminess and a promise. Its black rocks and crashing waves a threat. It is rarely a peaceful landscape. In spite of warm and sunny days, when the Pacific is as calm and beautiful as its name, there always remain the black cypress trees, bent and twisted with wind, the tumultuous shore line, the rocks—and the hint of an older world underlying and perhaps motivating to some degree this new world. Probably the most famous and modern golf club in the world (the Cypress Point Club) is on the peninsula—and a few miles back in the hills one of the oldest ranches on the continent, clinging in many ways to all its old customs. The mingling of the two worlds adds to the romance of the peninsula and to its curious enchantment. Curious because there is really something spell-like and enchanting in the very air. It is the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, incredibly in one’s hand, yet ever escaping and elusive.

  But probably never before in its colorful history had its own special topography played as large a part as it was about to play in the lives of several people. Certainly seldom before had sheer geography so much to do with murder.

  Dave Seabrooke was the first to mention that, although he did so obliquely. As they stopped beside the arched gate leading to the patio he said: “Well, I got Sutton’s car back again all right in spite of the road and the fog. Serena, how did you get to the house—I mean to Casa Madrone—this afternoon?”

  “I drove. I took Sutton’s station wagon.”

  “How did Leda get there?”

  As much as Serena had thought while she waited in Sade’s, she hadn’t thought of that. Yet it was an obvious inquiry. “I don’t know. I didn’t see any other car. I don’t know how she got there.”

  Bill was getting out of the car. He said: “She drives. I take it she was alone—that is, except for whoever killed her. Maybe she came with him! Here, Sissy, take my hand. It’s black as a pit.”

  Dave got out and slammed the door and came around the front of the car. “You’d have seen Leda’s car if it was there. Jem said he had Sutton’s station wagon and mine and would bring them both back, one of the policemen driving. Well, of course that doesn’t say that Leda’s car wasn’t there too. I wasn’t paying much attention to anything but the murder. I guess the police and Jem aren’t here yet.”

  Bill took Serena’s hand. The long white outlines of the encircling house were dim in the fog. They found the flagstones and the way to the veranda, and fumbled for the latch for the door. Amanda heard them and flung it open.

  “There you are!” she cried. “I was listening …” and then she saw Bill Lanier.

  Serena was beside Bill. She saw Amanda’s face change, her eyes widen and her mouth freeze so it was like a straight scarlet gash, and her cheekbones suddenly stand out as if the blood had drained altogether from her face and left only bones and skin behind. “Bill!”

  Bill who never grinned, grinned then. His straight, brutal mouth pulled away from his teeth. He said loudly: “Didn’t expect me, did you, Amanda! Didn’t want me either. Well, I’m here and you can’t put me out. I’m coming in. In fact I’m going to stay around just lots and you can’t do anything about it. And I want to know first if my lovely wife is here.”

  Again Amanda said, “Bill”; but she moved aside, numbly, and let him pass her. Her eyes went to Dave’s, and he said: “He’s all right, Amanda. Just a spot on the tight side. He won’t hurt anybody.”

  Amanda closed the door behind them and followed them into the long living room.

  For an instant Serena stopped on the threshold, struck by the odd sense of a repeated experience. It was as if she had done that very thing before, entered that room, found the same people there, about to discuss the same thing. It was as if she knew what would happen next. Then she realized that it actually was a repeated experience. It had all happened and only the night before.

  Luisa Condit had met a violent death; and now Leda was dead, and the police were about to arrive to question them about it. Supper, buffet fashion, was again spread on the long table at the end of the room. Amanda and Sutton and—well, there it was different, Leda was gone. Johnny Blagden and Jem and the police had not arrived. This time there was no question as to whether or not it was murder.

  And Alice Lanier and Bill were there.

  Alice sat in the depths of a lounge chair before the fire, her beautiful legs crossed indolently, her gorgeous red hair
like a beckoning flame above her beautiful, white skin, and her green eyes and scarlet lips, and her green tweed suit with artificial cherries shining on the button hole. She was smoking. Sutton sat opposite her on the sofa; both of them looked up at Bill, who stopped a moment on the threshold still with that wolfish grin on his dark face. Neither Sutton nor Alice moved for an instant or two. Alice’s hand with a cigarette in it was halfway to her mouth and remained so. Then she said coolly, “Hello, Bill.” Sutton after his first moment of surprise, got to his feet.

  “Bill!” he said, but without cordiality. “We didn’t expect you. Come in. Ah, there you are, Sissy. Are the police here, too? They’re coming.… Hello, Dave. You got her all right. Want a drink? Here, sit down. Sissy.…”

  “Don’t ask her about it yet,” said Dave rather sharply. “She’s all right, if you just let her alone.”

  “But Sissy,” cried Alice. “You’ve got to tell us what happened. How did you happen to go to your house? How did you happen to find Leda? Had you arranged …?”

  Dave said abruptly: “I mean it, Alice. Let Sissy alone. I’ll take a Scotch, Sutton.”

  Bill had scarcely moved—and had not spoken. He moved then, however, his big, well-made body as lithe and easy as an animal’s. He went to Alice’s chair and reached out abruptly and caught her delicate, pointed chin and forced her face up toward him. She tried to move away, back against the chair, but his other hand caught her shoulder hard. Alice writhed back into the chair and Bill held her like a vise and bent over and kissed her twice on the mouth. Alice cried angrily: “That’s like you, Bill Lanier! That’s like you. I hate you. I told you I never wanted to see you again. And yet you come here—here, of all places …”

  Bill said to the rest of them, loudly: “Sorry, but I want to speak to my wife. My ex-wife, I should say. Privately.”

  “I won’t,” said Alice.

  “There’s plenty of room,” said Sutton over his shoulder, from the side table where he was mixing drinks. “There’s a light in my study and a door you can close. Nobody’s going to listen.”

  “Come on, Alice.”

  “I won’t. There’s nothing I want to listen to. There’s nothing you can say to me ever again.…”

  She put both slim white hands on the arms of her chair as if to resist Bill Lanier by force. He looked at her, however, and then suddenly laughed. “I’m not going to drag you away from your protecting friends. What I have to say I’ll tell you here and now. And you’ll do well to listen.”

  “Bill, don’t …” cried Alice, but he bent, took her face in his big muscular hands again and whispered in her ear. Serena, sitting on the sofa Sutton had left, saw Alice’s face change from a rather petulant, sharp anger to quick comprehension. Bill drew away. Sutton came with glasses. Amanda who’d been watching, too, Serena realized, sat down slowly in the chair opposite Alice and across the hearthrug. Bill straightened up again, his dark face perfectly immobile and unrevealing. Alice’s delicate face was unrevealing, except for a flash of something like friendliness which came into it suddenly and she said: “Thank you, Bill.”

  “Don’t mention it,” said Bill with elaborate irony and sat down on the great footstool near Serena. Dave lighted a cigarette. Amanda’s wide, dark eyes were still upon Bill as if fascinated. Her face was very pale and had unexpected hollows in it. Obviously, too obviously, Amanda was actually and really afraid of Bill.

  Sutton went to the mantel and stood with his elbow upon it. “The way I look at it is this,” he said quietly. “They’re going to say now, of course, that Luisa was murdered too. Since murder is not in the usual routine of life, and murderers don’t really flourish in numbers, they are likely to say that Luisa’s murder and Leda’s are hooked up. We are—the five of us, six with Serena—the closest friends Leda and Johnny have. And naturally Amanda and I were closest to Luisa. So we may as well have our stories ready for the police.”

  There was a short and rather startled silence. Then Alice Lanier leaned forward. “You can’t possibly mean, Sutton Condit, that they’ll think I murdered her!” she cried. “Because I didn’t and I can prove it. I was at the hospital all afternoon doing nurses’ aid. I couldn’t have done it even if … And I didn’t.”

  Amanda finally looked away from Bill Lanier. She had changed from her suit to a long, crimson housegown of silk jersey with long tight sleeves. It was a beautiful dress which clung in artful folds to Amanda’s tall, lovely figure. Tonight though, she wore no bracelet. Serena thought briefly of that. But she thought no more of it because of what Amanda, incredibly, and quite seriously was saying, for she was speaking to Serena. “Serena,” she said, using Serena’s name for probably the first time in her life, “you’d better tell us the truth. Either you know who killed Leda, or you did it yourself. But if you’ll tell us the truth, we’ll protect you. I promise you that.”

  Alice gave a short scream. Bill said: “Shut up, Alice.” And Amanda said: “You see, Serena, Jem said, over the telephone that a scarf belonging to me was found. The police believe it was what Leda was strangled with. I didn’t have my scarf there. I wasn’t near Casa Madrone this afternoon and I can prove it. But you were there. As Sutton says, we’ve got to have our stories ready.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  NO ONE SPOKE FOR a moment. Then Dave leaned over and put his hand upon Serena’s. He said to Amanda, still so sharply and sternly that it didn’t sound like Dave: “You’d better take that back, Amanda. Right now. Publicly.”

  Astonishment crossed Amanda’s face. “Really, Dave! Do you consider this public?”

  Dave’s eyes flashed. His quiet, scholarly face was pale and angry. He said, still in that stern and unexpectedly angry voice, “If you said that to one person only it would still be too public. Take it back, Amanda. Apologize, if you’re capable of it.”

  “Why, Dave!” cried Amanda, her eyes widening.

  Sutton from the mantel said: “Dave’s right. You don’t realize what you’ve just said, Amanda. You don’t realize how serious this is. You didn’t mean to, I know, but you’ve practically accused Sissy of murder.” And Serena, at last, found her voice, and stopped being a paralyzed observer, which up to then she had been, quite as if none of the things they were saying concerned her, Serena March.

  Yet actually she was incredulous. She was grateful to Dave for defending her, and to Sutton. But she didn’t even for an instant think that Amanda meant what she said.

  “Amanda, you’re being very silly,” she said, and then was surprised to find that she’d thought she was quite calm and cool, but that her voice was unsteady and high. She went on, however: “You know perfectly well that you don’t mean that you think I killed”—her voice wavered again but she finished—“anybody. You just can’t realize that it’s true and Leda really was murdered.” Amanda was staring at her blankly, the whites showing beneath the brown irises in her eyes. How could she make Amanda or the others understand Amanda’s fatal faculty for avoiding plain facts when she chose to do so. It meant, really, nothing.

  “Oh, all right,” said Amanda. “I apologize, Serena.”

  “You needn’t apologize,” said Serena wearily.

  “Maybe you don’t realize how serious this is, Amanda,” said Dave. “But try to. It’s murder. The murder of one of your closest friends and one of mine and—of all of us. It means a murder investigation; it means a trial; it means … The point is, you’ve got to consider somebody besides yourself. You can’t play-act. Understand?”

  Sutton said again, placatively: “She’s only upset. She didn’t realize …”

  Amanda said sullenly: “Oh, all right, Dave. Forget it. All of you forget it. Not,” she added, “that the police will. You’ll see. They’ll say it’s queer that all these things happened right after Sissy got home. Yes, and after you got back, too, Bill Lanier. Don’t forget that.”

  Dave gave a kind of sigh and went over to stand beside Sutton. Bill cried: “So it’s me you’re going to work on now, Amanda. Well, I’ll
get ahead of you. I’ll tell the police you’d like to have me arrested for murder. That’d just suit you, wouldn’t it, Amanda? But the catch is I didn’t do it.”

  “Nobody ever said you did,” flashed Alice.

  “She’ll say it if she gets half a chance,” said Bill, jerking his dark head toward Amanda. “Look what she’s just done for Sissy. Or tried to do. I still want to know, Amanda, why you’re so scared.”

  “You’re scared too,” said Amanda angrily. “It’s as Dave says. We knew her better than anybody. If it wasn’t a—a tramp or somebody like that, they’ll try to say we did it. One of us—or Johnny Blagden, maybe,” she added with a suddenly thoughtful look. “He’s her husband, of course, and—yes, maybe Johnny …”

  Dave turned quickly toward her again, but Sutton said before Dave could speak: “For God’s sake, Amanda, don’t accuse Johnny, too. Or anybody. If there must be suspicion let it come from the police.”

  “And it will come,” said Bill Lanier almost gleefully. “It will come.” There was a distant peal of a bell, and he added with a chuckle, “Here they are now.”

  But it wasn’t the police.

  It was Jem.

  If there had been among any of them any lingering feeling of unreality, of incredulity, of inability to comprehend the truth and that the truth was murder, it vanished when Jem came. Probably, thought Serena suddenly, because he looked so tired. Sutton went to take his coat. Jem’s eyes went around the room until he saw Serena. “Hello,” he said quietly. “Dave found you at Sade’s, Serena? The fire looks good.” The whole atmosphere of the room changed subtly as he came forward and sank into a chair while Sutton brought him a drink. It became very quiet and yet full of question. Every face there reflected all at once as in an unquiet mirror something of Jem’s own face—very white, terribly tired. And with a queer, tense something in it that more than anything else was convincing. It had really happened—murder.

  Nobody asked a question, however. Jem said: “I’ve been with Johnny. Police are on their way. Thanks, Sutton.”