Mason waited until his emotion had subsided, then inquired, “How about Rodney French? Did he ask any questions?”
“No. He did go so far as to telephone Franklin’s bookkeeper and ask him if Franklin had said anything about making out that check. That was when the check wasn’t in the morning mail. Upon being assured that Franklin had so advised his bookkeeping department, French took the money and kept quiet.”
“Otherwise, French might have resorted to a little blackmail after he learned of Franklin’s disappearance?” Mason asked.
“I don’t know. I suppose that after he heard of the disappearance and heard my denial that I had been with my brother, French became rather suspicious.”
“And just why,” Mason asked, “did that make you feel that your brother would have become estranged from you?”
“Don’t you see?” Shore said, unmistakable anguish in his voice. “The newspapers dug up a lot of stuff. A lot of the details about my brother’s financial transactions were given to the public, the amount of his bank balance, the checks which had been drawn in the last few days — and there was, of course, mention made of the fact that the last check which he had drawn had been one in favor of Rodney French to an amount of ten thousand dollars.”
Mason gave the matter thoughtful consideration. “You don’t think your brother forgave you — under the circumstances?”
“I had hoped that he would understand and forgive,” Gerald said, “but when he saw fit to make himself known by calling up Helen instead of me, I— Well, you can draw your own conclusions.”
Mason pinched out the end of his cigarette. “If Lieutenant Tragg ever gets hold of all these facts,” he said, “he’ll convict you of first-degree murder.”
“Don’t I know it!” Gerald Shore exclaimed. “And there’s nothing I can do. I feel like a swimmer who’s being carried along by a current against which he can’t struggle, headed toward a deadly whirlpool.”
Mason said, “There’s one thing you can do.”
“What?”
“Keep your mouth shut,” the lawyer said. “Let me do the talking — and that means let me do all of it.”
Chapter 11
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, slapped 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—”
“Go on.”
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 hall 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.