A DINNER INVITATION
"Look what's after you, man," Skeet warned me from her lofty perch as I
went out through the big room in quest of Ina Vandeman. "Better you stay
here. I gif you a yob. Lots safer--only run the risk of getting your
neck broken."
I grinned up into her jolly, freckled face, and waited for the woman who
came toward me with that elastic, swinging movement of hers, the
well-opened eyes studying me, keeping all their secrets behind them.
"Mr. Boyne," a hand on my arm guided me to a side door; we stepped
together out on to a small balcony that led to the lawn. "My husband
brought me your message. Nobody over by the tennis court; let's go and
walk up and down there."
Her fingers remained on my sleeve as we moved off; she emphasized her
points from time to time by a slight pressure.
"Such a relief to have a man like you in charge of this investigation."
She gave me an intimate smile; tall as she was, her face was almost on a
level with my own, yet I still found her eyes unreadable, none of those
quick tremors under the skin that register the emotions of excitable
humanity. She remained a handsome, perfectly groomed, and entirely
unruffled young woman.
"Thank you," was all I said.
"Mr. Vandeman and I understand how very, very serious this is. Of
course, now, neighbors and intimates of Mr. Gilbert are under
inspection. Everybody's private affairs are liable to be turned out.
We've all got to take our medicine. No use feeling personal resentment."
Fine; but she'd have done better to keep her hands off me. An old police
detective knows too much of the class of women who use that lever. I
looked at them now, white, delicate, many-ringed, much more expressive
than her face, and I thought them capable of anything.
"Here are the names you'll want," she fumbled in the girdle of her gown,
brought out a paper and passed it over. "These are the ones who stayed
after the reception, went up to my room with me, and helped me
change--or rather, hindered me."
"The ones," I didn't open the paper yet, just looked at her across it,
"who were with you all the time from the reception till you left the
house for San Francisco?"
"It's like this," again she smiled at me, "the five whose names are on
that paper might any one of them have been in and out of my room during
the time. I can't say as to that. But _they_ can swear that _I_ wasn't
out of the room--because I wasn't dressed. As soon as I changed from my
wedding gown to my traveling suit, I went down stairs and we were all
together till we drove to San Francisco and supper at Tait's, where I
had the pleasure of meeting you, Mr. Boyne."
"I understand," I said. "They could all speak for you--but you couldn't
speak for them." Then I opened and looked. Some list! The social and
financial elect of Santa Ysobel: bankers' ladies; prune kings'
daughters; persons you couldn't doubt, or buy. But at the top of all was
Laura Bowman's name.
We had halted for the turn at the end of the court. I held the paper
before her.
"How about this one? Do you think she was in the room all the time? Or
have you any recollection?"
The bride moved a little closer and spoke low.
"Laura and the doctor were in the middle of one of their grand rows.
She's a bunch of temperament. Mamma was ill; the girls were having to
start out with only Laura for chaperone; she said something about going
somewhere, and it wouldn't take her long--she'd be back in plenty of
time. But whether she went or not--Mr. Boyne, you don't want us to tell
you our speculations and guesses? That wouldn't be fair, would it?"
"It wouldn't hurt anything," I countered. "I'll only make use of what
can be proven. Anything you say is safe with me."
"Well, then, of course you know all about the situation between Laura
and Jim Edwards. Laura was determined she wouldn't go up to San
Francisco with her husband--or if she did, he must drive her back the
same night. She wouldn't even leave our house to get her things from
home; the doctor, poor man, packed some sort of bag for her and brought
it over. When he came back with it, she wasn't to be found; and she
never did appear until we were getting into the machine."
I listened, glancing anxiously toward the skyline of that little hill
over which Worth and Barbara might be expected to appear almost any
moment now. Then we made the turn at the end of the court, and my view
of it was cut off.
"Laura and Jim--they're the ones this is going to be hard on. I do feel
sorry for them. She's always been a problem to her family and friends. A
great deal's been overlooked. Everybody likes Jim; but--he's a
southerner; intrigue comes natural to them."
Five minutes before I had been listening to Edwards' pitiful defense of
this girl; I recalled his "scouting" for a chance to get her home unseen
and save her standing with her family. That could be classed as
intrigue, too, I suppose. We were strolling slowly toward the clubhouse.
"I don't give Dr. Bowman much," I said deliberately. A quick look came
my way, and,
"Mr. Gilbert was greatly attached to him. Everybody's always believed
that only Mr. Gilbert's influence held that match together. Now he's
dead, and Laura's freed from some sort of control he seemed to have over
her, of course she hopes and expects she'll be able to divorce the
doctor in peace and marry Jim."
"No movement of the sort yet?"
She stopped and faced round toward me.
"Dr. Bowman--he's our family physician, you know--is trying for a very
fine position away from here, in an exclusive sanitarium. Divorce
proceedings coming now would ruin his chances. But I don't know how long
he can persuade Laura to hold off. She's in a strange mood; I can't make
her out, myself. She disliked Gilbert; yet his death seems to have upset
her frightfully."
"You say she didn't like Mr. Gilbert?"
"They hated each other. But--he was so peculiar--of course that wasn't
strange. Many people detested him. Bron never did. He always forgave him
everything because he said he was insane. Bron told you my
experience--the one that made me break with Worth?"
She looked at me, a level look; no shifting of color, no flutter of
eyelid or throat. We were at the clubhouse steps.
"Here comes the boy himself," I warned as Worth and Barbara, their arms
full of ferns, rounded the turn from the little dip at the side of the
grounds where the stream went through. We stood and waited for them.
"You two," Ina spoke quickly to them. "Mr. Boyne's just promised to come
over to dinner to-morrow night." Her glance asked me to accept the fib
and the invitation. "I want both of you."
"I'm going to be at your house anyhow, Ina," Barbara said, "working with
Skeet painting those big banners they've tacked up out in your court.
You'll have to feed us; but we'll be pretty messy. I don't know about a
dinner party."
"It isn't," Ina protested, smiling. "It's just what you said--feeding
you. Nobody there besides yourself and Skeet but Mr. Boyne and Worth--if
he'll come."
"I have to go up to San Francisco to-morrow," said Worth.
"But you'll be back by dinner time?" Ina added quickly.
"If I make it at all."
"Well, you can come just as you are, if you get in at the last minute,"
she said, and he and Barbara went on to carry their ferns in. When they
were out of hearing, she turned and floored me with,
"Mr. Vandeman has forbidden me to say this to you, but I'm going to
speak. If Worth doesn't have to be told about me--and his father--I'd be
glad."
"If the missing leaves of the diary are ever found," I came up slowly,
"he'd probably know then." I watched her as I said it. What a strange
look of satisfaction in the little curves about her mouth as she spoke
next:
"Those leaves will never be found, Mr. Boyne. I burned them. Mr. Gilbert
presented them to me as a wedding gift. He was insane, but, intending to
take his own life, I think even his strangely warped conscience refused
to let a lying record stand against an innocent girl who had never done
him any harm."
We stood silent a moment, then she looked round at me brightly with,
"You're coming to dinner to-morrow night? So glad to have you. At seven
o'clock. Well--if this is all, then?" and at my nod, she went up the
steps, turning at the side door to smile and wave at me.
What a woman! I could but admire her nerve. If her alibi proved
copper-fastened, as something told me it would, I had no more hope of
bringing home the murder of Thomas Gilbert to Mrs. Bronson Vandeman of
Santa Ysobel than I had of readjusting the stars in their courses!