Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 105, No. 5, October 10, 1936
- Автор: Вулрич Корнелл, Tinsley Theodore
- Год: 1936
- Язык: английский
- Год: The Red Star News Company
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 105, No. 5, October 10, 1936». Краткое содержание книги:
She lifted her head, lips suddenly determined. She had reached a quick decision. Head up, eyes alert, she started swiftly down the hall toward the stair head.
Chapter IV
Murder in Haste—
Susan Dilke sat before the glowing range in the kitchen, work done, kitchen swept and garnished. There was nothing to keep Susan from mounting the stairs to the third floor cubby she called home, removing her stiff garments and going to bed. But though the noisy clock on the shelf above the stove had pointed to midnight, Susan still sat tense and unwearying, staring at the kitchen door.
It was of heavy, rather rough wood, painted white. There was the black square of a window, partially screened by half-drawn curtains, forming a diamond-shaped opening. Against this the rain poured in shining torrents.
Susan sat very straight in an uncomfortable wooden chair. Her large feet were planted firmly on the floor under the edge of the range. Her sparse gray hair shone like metal in the light. The clock ticked noisily.
She glanced at it now and then, and fear flecked briefly in the depths of her brilliant eyes. Twice during her vigil she had stolen to the end of the hall and listened to the low murmur of voices in the living room. Words she could not catch. Susan did not particularly care what was being discussed in there, however. Her faculties were terribly concentrated on something else, something which was obviously of vital importance to her.
A creaking board on the porch made her start, eyes stretched wide on the shining blackness of the uncurtained triangle. Something moved before it, like a spray of mist blown by the wind. Susan stood upright in one lithe movement, glanced quickly over her shoulder at the closed swinging door to the halt, crossed over to the outside door.
Soundlessly she opened it. Rain spattered in. She gulped at the force of the wind, leaned out, calling softly, “Dan! Dan! You there?”
Nothing at first save the lashing of the trees, then a low, furtive voice answered, “Yeah. Come ’ere.”
Susan looked back again at the bland quietness of the shining kitchen, slipped outside, closing the door softly behind her. She did not stay more than three minutes. The man named Dan, a rough, uncouth figure, mumbled under his breath and slouched down the steps and into the rain again. Susan stared after him, grim face all broken and working.
“Dan,” she called hoarsely. “Oh, Danny boy—”
“Pipe down,” his voice ground through the dark. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Susan said on what sounded strangely like a sob, “only be careful, Danny boy, be careful—”
A mumbled reply came out of the rain, feet crunched on the wet gravel.
Susan returned to the kitchen. Rain blurred her glasses. Moisture streamed into her eyes. The room was a blur of light, with the glistening pans and the ruddy range. She heard water singing as the kettle boiled gaily. It had a comforting sound, at wide variance with the black night outside. It reached through Susan’s troubled preoccupation with a friendly insistence. She lifted her head, frowned at the kettle on the stove.
“An old woman like myself,” she muttered, “should be tending her own kettle, with her grandchildren playing around her knee. An old woman like myself—”
“Dilke!”
Her head lifted. Breath sucked between her strong white teeth. Sweat gleamed suddenly on her forehead. She blinked moisture from her eyes, peered into the shadows by the swinging door.
“Yes?” she questioned thickly.
Ralph Kessler strolled into the kitchen. His little bright eyes bored into her like diamond drills.
“Bad night to be outside, Dilke,” he said softly, and she saw his hand working at his side.
Susan’s glance did not waver, but her fingers clenched in the folds of her black skirt. She said, “Yes, sir. It’s a rare bad night.”
Kessler came toward her, smiling. She heard him breathing in long, slow cadence, but she saw also how the muscle twitched in his thick neck. She backed unconsciously before his advance.
“It’s a bad night, too,” Kessler said gently, “to be using the telephone, Dilke. You thought we were all busy in the dining room, didn’t you?” He watched with cruel enjoyment how the color drained out of her face. He laughed a little. “You’ve been careless, Dilke, very careless.”
He had kept one hand behind him. It came forward now, and her lips opened, but no sound came. “So careless,” Kessler repeated, and like light his hand lifted, holding a thin-bladed knife by the extreme tip of the blade.
Susan saw it coming, tried to dodge. It swished through the air like a bright bird, arcing beautifully, finding its mark with deadly precision. The mark was Susan Dilke’s gaunt corded throat. The knife sliced into it, quivered, held. Her eyes went wide with astonished agony. Her head jerked back. Her great hands lifted, fumbled futilely at the table, fell. For a moment she swayed there against the wall, staring at the ceiling with eyes that were slowly losing their brilliance, then she slipped down and lay in a crumpled heap of starched black muslin, her little white apron, twisted by the strong agony of her writhing hands. Blood, which had spurted at the knife thrust, began welling quietly in a dark red stream, creeping over the white tie at her throat, puddling wetly on the clean floor boards.
Ralph Kessler wiped his fingers delicately on a fresh linen handkerchief. His eyes went in a quick, venomous flash over the quiet room, lingered a moment on the black diamond of the door. Then he crossed over, shoved aside a small table, bent down and, inserting a thick finger in the flat iron ring, lifted a trapdoor. Cold, musty air rushed up. There was a furtive rustling and scratching from the blackness below.
Breathing hard, Kessler seized the old woman’s shoulders, dragged her inert body to the opening and unceremoniously tumbled it onto the stairs. Then he carefully lowered the door and replaced the table. Sweat was running down his face. He mopped it away, impatiently, his eyes narrowed on the telltale stain on the floor boards.
There was a small bright rug just before the range. He seized it, spread it over the spot, stood back regarding it thoughtfully.
A sound made him lift his head. The swinging door had opened. Louis Tavelli appeared.
“Hello,” he said, “we’ve been wondering where you went.” He stepped through, cigarette smoldering between his fingers.
Kessler smiled, shrugged. “Thought I’d have Dilke make us some coffee,” he explained. “But I guess the old woman’s turned in.” His glance went carelessly over the kitchen.
Tavelli’s eyes, behind the glasses, followed that glance, noted the pushed-back chair, the table angling out of square. He shrugged slightly. “A shot of Scotch could do the trick. Need you wake her?”
Kessler’s head lifted slowly. For a moment color was gone from his heavy face, leaving it grayish white, mottled, repulsive. His eyes bulged. He shivered, wet his lips, laughed with unnatural loudness.
“No,” he said, “I won’t waken her. Let her sleep. Let the old woman sleep.”
He crossed to the swinging door. Tavelli stood aside to let him pass. Before he followed his eyes again took in the details of the kitchen, lingering on the small, bright rug which Jay in such a peculiar place, over there to the right of the door, out from, the wall a couple of feet. Odd place for a rug. Odd rug for that matter. There seemed to be a dark design on top of the small, bright one. A blurred outline, that appeared, doubtless a trick of the light, to glisten moistly.
He went after Kessler along the window hall, moving swiftly on sure, silent feet.