Hunt in the Dark Page 15

  “She seemed to know her well enough to fix her hair and then want to kill her.”

  “If she said she wanted to kill her, it was a lie, just a crazy attempt to shield me.” Larry lighted a cigarette with fingers that shook. “You see, she thinks I killed Lila Trenton. Of course, I didn’t, but—”

  “Why does she think you killed Mrs. Trenton?” put in Lee quickly.

  “Because I was right here in the apartment tonight.”

  “So it was you who came here just before ten?”

  “Yes. I had a key. Mrs. Trenton gave it to me this morning.” Larry produced the key from the pocket of his raincoat and tossed it across the table. “I might as well tell you exactly what happened. When I let myself in, the apartment was in darkness. I called Mrs. Trenton’s name, but she didn’t answer. I thought she was out, so I turned on the light in the living room and looked for her there.”

  “Did you look for her in the kitchen?”

  “Why—no. The door was shut. I never thought about it.”

  “Did you hear anything?”

  “No.”

  “And how long did you wait?”

  Larry jerked his head toward the professor. “Until that man and Mr. Trenton arrived. Then I hid in a closet in the hall. I waited till they had gone into the kitchen, and ran out.”

  Captain Lee turned to the professor, who was tapping mildly on his chair arm. “Do you know anything about this?”

  “Why—er—perhaps I may have heard a scuffling sound, but I was very upset at the time. And then I am slightly myopic. I—“

  The detective did not appear to be listening. Once more he was addressing Larry Graves.

  “That’s the third unlikely story I’ve heard in this place tonight.

  You don’t expect me to believe it?’ “Of course. It’s the truth.”

  “Well, then, there’s one thing you haven’t explained. Why did you come to see Mrs. Trenton tonight?”

  The lines of Larry’s face were set and resolute. He was speaking to Claire rather than the captain and, without knowing it, he used almost exactly the same words as she had used.

  “I came here,” he said slowly, “to threaten Mrs. Trenton and, if necessary, to kill her.”

  XII

  A FLAWLESS ALIBI

  After these two dramatic confessions, Captain Lee had no alternative but to take Larry Graves and Claire French to the police station for further questioning. At length, Gilbert Comroy was left alone. He had pleaded the necessity of spending the night with his friend and had promised to make himself available the next morning.

  When the door closed behind the captain, the professor gave a sigh of relief and crossed to one of Lila’s mirrors. For the first time in his life, he was eager to see his own face. There should, he felt, be some radical change in his appearance, for he was not used to lying. And he had been telling or acting a lie the whole evening.

  The plump, benevolent countenance which looked back at him seemed much the same as usual.

  “Well, well,” murmured Gilbert Comroy, “I ought to be thoroughly ashamed of myself.”

  But he wasn’t.

  He tiptoed to his friend’s bedroom and silently opened the door. Paul Trenton was still asleep. One shaded lamp played on his sallow face, smoothing from it the lines of pain and leaving only peace and serenity. Softly, Professor Comroy crept to a chair and sat down.

  The hours passed. The clock in the living room chimed two—three—four—five.

  Once during the night, the professor’s round eyes closed like a sleepy owl’s, but he shook them open again and moved into the bathroom for a glass of water to keep him awake.

  The pale rays of the February dawn were filtering through the shades when Paul Trenton finally stirred. He moved his head on the pillow and murmured:

  “Lila.”

  Comroy jumped up. “How do you feel, Paul?”

  “Gilbert! It’s you.” A look of remembered pain had come into Trenton’s eyes. “Poor Lila. Did they find out—“

  “Don’t worry, Paul.” Gilbert Comroy bustled out of the room and returned shortly, carrying a cup of tea. “Drink this. It’ll make you feel better.”

  As he passed the cup, the hot liquid spilled over into the saucer. “Tut,” he exclaimed, “what a mess I’ve made!”

  Paul accepted the tea gratefully.

  “Do you know, Gilbert,” he said suddenly, “this is the first time I’ve had a cup of tea in bed since I was a boy.”

  As he drank it, Comroy told him, as gently as he could, everything that had happened the night before. Trenton nodded sadly. “Poor Lila,” he said at length. “So both of those young people wished her out of the way?”

  “The man Nolan is under suspicion, too.”

  “Well, I only hope that an innocent person will not be convicted.”

  “Don’t worry, my friend. Innocent people are very seldom convicted, despite popular prejudice to the contrary.”

  “Poor Lila,” murmured Trenton again, and his voice was very low. “She was such a pretty girl. And now she’s dead. Died before me, after all. Do you have any ideas about it, Gilbert?”

  “Yes.”

  “You suspect one of those three people?”

  “No.”

  Comroy took the empty cup from his friend’s hand and set it down on the bed table.

  “Things will take their course, Paul, and there is nothing much that we can do about it. I may be an old meddler, but I did tell Captain Lee my own reasons for thinking that two of those three young people were not guilty of murder. Eventually, I feel sure any grand jury would be forced to come the same conclusion, and not indict them.”

  Almost without realizing it, Comroy had started to speak as though he were discussing a scientific experiment in the laboratory rather than the death of his friend’s wife.

  “Obviously, there will be no serious charge against Miss French other than carrying a revolver and obstructing justice in a rather theatrical attempt to help the young man. She arrived at the apartment after the murder had been committed. Doubtless, she will come to her senses and furnish an alibi for her actions before ten. And although I am no expert criminologist, I cannot help thinking that guilty people are not so eager to admit that they had guilty intentions.”

  “That is also true in the case of Larry Graves. He came back when there was no need to come back. Besides, from Nolan’s story, it can be proved that Lila was already dead when Graves first let himself into the apartment.”

  Gilbert Comroy rose and drew the shades so that the early-morning light struck across his friend’s bed.

  “I have no particular sympathy with Nolan,” he went on. “A man who steals from a dead body deserves the prison sentence which he will most certainly get. But I do not think him guilty of the more serious charge. There was something about him as he told that tale last night which made me feel he was speaking the truth. And there is one real piece of evidence in his favor, the broken panel in the glass door. Nolan had a key. He was an experienced thief. He would never have broken that glass at the risk of being heard. No, it was broken by someone else, by the person who really did kill Lila.”

  “And who was that person?”

  “I hope that the coroner’s jury will reach the only acceptable conclusion.” Gilbert Comroy was looking curiously at his friend. “That your wife was killed by another prowler—one who broke into the kitchen, before Nolan arrived. A prowler who I trust will always be described in the official records as person or persons unknown.”

  There was a long silence. At length Paul said irrelevantly:

  “It is curious that Lila was willing to lend that young man five thousand dollars when she would not make a loan to help us continue our work at the university.”

  “But you have money now, Paul,” put in Comroy gently. “You will be able to finish your research.”

  Trenton smiled sadly. “Yes, if there’s time.”

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nbsp; “Nonsense, of course there will be time. To live and the will to live are closely bound together, Paul.”

  “Perhaps,” said Trenton dreamily. “And there is always Fleming. He’s a good man. At least the university will benefit by all this unhappy business. But those two young people, Gilbert— they are going to have a hard time.”

  “A hard time works wonders when you are young and in love. They’d had a pretty serious misunderstanding; this will bring them together.”

  “I hope,” continued Trenton quietly, “that you, as my executor, will consider that garage a good investment and continue the loan. I do not want them to suffer.”

  Once more the bedroom was strangely quiet. At length Gilbert Comroy spoke.

  “Paul, I must be frank with you. I have another reason for being certain that none of those three people killed your wife. You see—I know who really did it.”

  “You mean that you don’t believe in that ‘unknown prowler,’ Gilbert?”

  “Officially—yes, but actually—no. Of course, I have taken a great deal of liberty with the truth. And I have a certain amount of responsibility on my shoulders. But while I sat here during the night, I gave the matter much thought. I am sure I was justified in everything I did. Can you bear the truth, Paul?”

  “As a scientist, the truth should be one thing that I can always face.” Trenton smiled wanly as he sank back on the pillows and regarded his friend with questioning eyes.

  The professor was cleaning his spectacles. “The medical examiner stated that Lila died instantly from a blow which was struck before ten o’clock. He was right, and there is no need to question his statement.”

  “Yes?”

  “But there was something that the medical examiner could not tell. This crime—as I suppose it must be called—did not begin at ten, Paul. It had already started much earlier in the evening.”

  Trenton was still looking at him fixedly.

  “Sam Nolan told a seemingly incredible tale, but it happens to be true. He did see Lila lying there on the kitchen floor at ten o’clock. And he did see her move.”

  “Poor Lila!” echoed Trenton tonelessly. “I do hope she didn’t suffer.”

  “Sam Nolan said he saw her lying dead and covered with blood—just as you and I saw her later. But it is easy to deceive the eye. Lila was not dead when Nolan stole the pearls. She was unconscious. And he did not see blood. He merely saw—tomato juice.”

  “Comroy!”

  “Yes,” continued the professor calmly, “earlier in the evening Lila was struck with what is usually referred to as a blunt instrument. Let us suppose that in this case it was the flat side of the hatchet. The blow was hard enough to keep her unconscious for a long time. But it did not kill her, and it did not draw blood. If there had been blood, the medical examiner could have told at once that she had been wounded earlier. But in this case, there was no means of guessing.”

  Trenton’s lips parted slightly, but he did not speak.

  “The man who struck Lila,” went on Comroy after a pause, “knew that he would be returning to the apartment later with a witness. He decided that he and the witness should find Lila apparently dead. Therefore, he poured tomato juice over the floor and over the unconscious body—tomato juice which would give a convincing impression of blood at first and which could later be explained away by the fact that Lila was about to take some fruit juice form the refrigerator at the moment of death.”

  “And then?”

  “The tableau was set. He returned with the witness—and a short-sighted one at that. They found Lila lying there, and the witness was sent to telephone the police.” The eyes behind Professor Comroy’s spectacles were closed. He was not looking at his friend. “While the witness was out of the room, he completed what he had begun with a blow of the hatchet—a blow which must have killed instantaneously. The medical examiner—even after an autopsy—could not have told that she had been unconscious for over two hours before she was killed. But the rigidity of the muscles would incline him to set the time of death earlier than it actually occurred. A lucky occurrence and one which gave both you and myself an unshakable alibi. If any one were suspected, it would be the imaginary prowler—the man who had broken through the glass panel in the door.”

  “And yet,” said Trenton softly, “the man who killed poor Lila could not have foreseen that, instead of an imaginary prowler, there would be a real one. And then those two young people, they complicated things, too.”

  “They did.” Comroy looked long and closely into his friend’s eyes. “I guessed almost at once, Paul, but only by instinct. No one else will guess. And yet I am still curious—curious to know what exactly it was that made you decide yesterday to kill Lila.”

  Paul Trenton did not speak immediately. His worn face had a strange, far-away expression. “It is difficult to tell exactly why one does things, Gilbert. For years now I’ve known about Lila— known that she despised me, that there were other men, that— well, one need not go into her shortcomings now. About the five thousand dollars to young Graves. But in spite of everything, she was an attractive woman. I still thought I loved her. It was only yesterday that I realized I had been blinding myself.”

  “But what—what was it that changed you, Paul?”

  “When Lila called me back from the university in the afternoon, I’d had two terrible shocks. I had heard about the Abel Research and I’d been to see my doctor. I suppose that in itself was enough to make any one deviate slightly from the normal. And then, when I got home, I—I saw Lila with that horrible dyed hair and her face lined and distorted with anger. It’s strange how important little things can be. I think it was that one stupid detail which shifted my whole point of view. Suddenly I seemed to realize that she wasn’t young anymore—wasn’t attractive.”

  Comroy was listening in rapt attention.

  “We were together in the kitchen,” continued Trenton, “and all the time she was talking indignantly about some girl from a beauty shop, I could think of nothing except that one fact: ‘She isn’t attractive any more.’ She wanted to start a lawsuit, spend money to satisfy some little quirk of her vanity. And then, when I wouldn’t take it seriously, she told me about your visit and started sneering at my work. I—I tried to tell her what the doctor had said, but she was too busy to listen—too busy telling me how weak I was, what a failure I’d been. She said something—I can’t remember what—but suddenly I lost control. Hardly knowing what I was doing, I picked up the hatchet and hit her. I meant to kill her, Comroy, but I’ve always been a bit of a bungler. I suppose I must have used the flat of the blade.”

  “You meant to kill her! So you had planned nothing deliberately?”

  “No. I did nothing deliberate. And I really thought I had killed her. It was merely a vague instinct of self-preservation which made me break the panel in the door and pretend to talk to her in the bedroom when you arrived a few minutes later. The tomato juice was just a coincidence. She had it in her hand when I struck her.”

  “So when you and I found her there in the kitchen—you still thought she was dead?”

  Trenton nodded. “It was only later—after you had gone to telephone the police that I felt her heart still beating. At first I was glad. But then I realized that, if she lived, I’d be charged with attempted murder. That’s why I struck her the second time.”

  For a moment there was deep silence. When Trenton spoke again, his voice seemed to come from far away.

  “I thought I was a scientist,” he said musingly. “A man whose passions and emotions were nicely under control. But there are some things we don’t learn in laboratories—and one of them is how very human and frail we all are.”

  “There is always a lot to learn about ourselves, Paul. I never dreamed that you would do what you did, and I never dreamed that I would be a willing accessory after the fact.”

  The light was brighter now. It played on those two middle-aged men sitting together and r
egarding one another solemnly. Paul Trenton turned his face toward the sunlight.

  “It’s strange,” he murmured. “Somehow I don’t feel any remorse for what I have done. People like Lila do not give happiness. Nor can they get it themselves. But I am human enough to wish that I might not be punished until after my work is finished.”

  “But no one will ever suspect you, Paul.” Gilbert Comroy moved to his friend’s bed and laid a hand gently on his shoulder. “By a series of coincidences you have given yourself a flawless alibi.

  “But you must tell the truth, Gilbert. And so must I. I am little better than a dead man. The doctor told me I had but a few weeks more to live, and there is an unmistakable feeling within me that tells me I am all but dying now. And no living person must suffer because of me. If they do not find out who really murdered Lila before I am gone, I will leave a written confession and put it in your care.”

  “You can trust me, Paul. Write your confession; but unless it is absolutely necessary, I shall never dare to use it.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because you might set a precedent, Paul.” The professor’s voice was so low that his friend could not hear. “There are many husbands in the world and many Lilas. I believe that unintentionally you have stumbled upon the perfect method of killing a wife.”

  Hunt in the Dark

  Iris and I were at Coney Island that night. War hadn’t come then. And we were celebrating the fact that being married was still wonderful after eighteen months. We were in a gay, frivolous mood. We pushed along the garish boardwalk, jostling against soldiers and sailors and marines and girls and children and Chinamen and half of New York and all of Brooklyn. “Peter,” said Iris, “let’s find a Death Plunge or a Suicide Chute or—”

  She may have finished that sentence. I don’t know. For suddenly everything was changed for me—fantastically changed. Because there, right in front of me, thrown up against me by the shifting tide of humanity, was Marta.