|IT seemed as though the stillness of death were already in the room;
a stillness that was horrible and unnerving in contrast with the shrill
swirling of the wind without, and the loud roar and pound of the waves
breaking upon the shore close at hand beneath the windows.
His face still set as in a rigid mould, features drawn in hard, sharp
lines, then ashen gray now even upon the lips, Raymond crossed from the
door to the nearer of the two windows. It was black outside, inky black,
unnaturally black, relieved only by a wavering, irregular line of white
where the waves broke into foam along the rocky beach--and this line,
as it wavered, and wriggled, and advanced, and receded seemed to lend an
uncanny ghostlike aspect to the blackness, and, as he strained his eyes
out of the window, he shuddered suddenly and drew back. But the next
instant he snarled fiercely to himself. Was he to lose his nerve because
it was black outside, and because the waves were running high and
creaming along the shore! He would have something shortly that would
warrant him in losing his nerve if he faltered now--the hemp around
his neck, rasping, chafing at his throat, the horrible prickling as the
rough strands grew taut!
He clutched at his throat mechanically, rubbing it with his fingers
mechanically--and, as fiercely as before, snarled again. Enough of
this! He was neither fool nor child. There was a sure way out from that
dangling noose, cornered, trapped though he was--and he knew the way
now. He reached up and drew down the window shade, and passed quickly to
the other window and drew down the shade there as well.
And then he turned, and stepped to the bed, and bent over the priest.
There was the underclothing first. He must make sure of that--that there
would be no marks of identification--that there would be nothing to rise
up against him, a mute and mocking witness to his undoing. He loosened
the man's clothing. It would not be necessary to take off the outer
garments. It was much easier here with the man on a bed, and a light
in the room than it had been out there on the road, and--ah! Lips
compressed, he nodded sharply to himself. The undergarments were new.
That precluded laundry marks--unless the man had had some marking put
upon them himself. No, there was nothing--nothing but the maker's tag
sewn in on the shirt at the back of the neck. He turned the priest over
on the bed to complete his examination. There was nothing on any
other part of the garments. The socks, then, perhaps? He pulled up
the trousers' legs hurriedly. No, there was nothing there, either. He
reached out to turn the priest over again--and paused. He could snip
that maker's tag from the neck of the shirt just as easily in the
position in which the man now lay, and--and the man's face would not
be staring up at him. There was a cursed, senseless accusation in that
white face, and the lip muscles twitched as though the man were about
to shout aloud, to scream out--_murder!_ If only the fool had died out
there in the woods, and would stop that infernal low moaning noise, and
those strangling inhalations as he gasped for breath!
Automatically, Raymond's fingers sought his penknife in its accustomed
place in his vest pocket--and slipped down a smooth, unobstructed
surface. His eyes followed his fingers in a sort of dazed, perplexed
way, and then he laughed a little huskily. The _soutane!_ He had
forgotten for the moment that he was a priest of God! It was the other
who wore the vest, it was in the other's pocket that the knife was to be
found. He had forgotten the devil's masquerade in the devil's whispering
that was in his soul!
He snatched the knife from the vest pocket, opened it, cut away the
cloth tag, and with infinite pains removed the threads that had held the
tag in place. He returned the knife to the vest pocket, and tucked the
little tag away in one of his own pockets; then hastily rearranged
the other's clothing again, and turned the man back into his original
position upon the bed.
And now! He glanced furtively all around the room. His hands crept out,
and advanced toward the priest. It was a very easy thing to do. No one
would know. No one but would think the man had died naturally. _Died!_
It was the first time he had allowed his mind to frame a concrete
expression that would fit the black thing that was in his soul.
A bead of sweat spurted out from his forehead. His hands somehow would
not travel very fast, but they were all the time creeping nearer to the
priest's throat. He had only to keep on forcing them on their way...
and it was not very far to go... and, once there, it would only take an
instant. God, if that white face would not stare up at him like that...
the eyes were closed of course... but still it stared.
Raymond touched his lips with the tip of his tongue, and again and again
circled the room with his eyes. Was that somebody there outside the
window? Was that a step out there in the passageway? Were those
_voices_ that chattered and gibbered from everywhere?
He jerked back his hands, and they fell to his sides, and he shivered.
What was it? What was the matter? What was it that he had to do? It
wasn't murder. That was a lie! The man wouldn't live anyhow, but he
might live long enough to talk. It was his life or the other's, wasn't
it? If he were caught now, there was no power on earth could save him.
On earth? What did he mean by that? What other power was there? It was
only a trite phrase he had used.
What was he hesitating about? It was the only chance he had.
“Get it done! Get it done, and over with, you squeamish fool!” prodded
that inner voice savagely.
His hands crept out again. Of course! Of course! He knew that. He must
get it done and over with. Only--only, great God, why did his hands
tremble so! He lifted one of them to his forehead and drew it away
dripping wet. What did that voice want to keep nagging him for! He knew
what he had to do. It was the only way. If the priest were dead,
he, Raymond, would be safe. There would be no question as to who the
murderer of Blondin was--and the priest would be buried and that would
be the end of it. And--yes! He had it all now. It was almost too simple!
He, Raymond, as the curé of the village, after a day or two, would meet
with an accident. A boating accident--yes, that was it! They would find
an upturned boat and his hat floating on the water perhaps--but they
would never find the body! He need only, in the interval of those few
days, gather together from somewhere some clothes into which he could
change, hide in the woods after the “accident,” and at night make his
final escape.
“Of course!” snapped the voice impatiently. “I've been telling you that
all along! There would be no further investigation as to the murder; and
only a sorrowful search along the shore, free from all suspicion, for
the body of Father Aubert. Well, why don't you act? Are you going to
fling your life away? Are you afraid? Have you forgotten that it is
growing late, that very soon now the doctor and the police will be
here?”
Afraid! No; he wasn't afraid of God or devil, or man or beast--that was
his creed, wasn't it? Only that damnable face still stared up at him,
and he couldn't get his hands near enough to--to do the work.
Slowly, inch by inch, his face as white and set as chiselled marble, his
hands crept forward again. How soft the bare, exposed throat looked that
was almost at his finger tips now. Would it _feel_ soft to the touch,
or--he swayed unsteadily, and crouched back, that cold shiver passing
over him. It was strange that he should shiver, that he should find it
cold. His brain was afire, and it whirled, and whirled, and whirled;
and devils laughed in his soul--and yet he stood aghast at the abhorrent
deed.
Wait! He would be able to think clearly in an instant. He must do it--or
die himself. Yes, yes; it was the _touch_ of his flesh against the
other's flesh from which he shrank, the _feel_ of his fingers on the
other's throat that held him back--that was it! Wait! He would remedy
that. That would have been a crude, mad way in any case. What had he
been thinking of! It would have left a mark. It would have been sure to
have left a mark. Perhaps they would not have noticed it, but it would
have invited the risk. There was a better way, a much better way--and a
way in which that face wouldn't be able to stare up at him any more, a
way in which he wouldn't hear that moaning, and that rattling, and
that struggling for breath. The man was almost dead now. It was only
necessary to take that other pillow there, and hold it tightly over
the other's face. _That_ wouldn't leave any mark. Yes, the pillow! Why
hadn't he thought of that before! It would have been all over by now.
Once more his hands began to creep up and outward. He leaned far over
the bed, reaching for the pillow--and something came between the
pillow and his hands. He glanced downward in a startled way. It was the
crucifix hanging from his neck. With a snarl, he swung it away. It came
back and struck against his knuckles. He tried to wrench it from his
neck. It would not come--but, instead, one hand slipped through the
chain, and pushed the crucifix outward, and for an instant held it there
between him and that white, staring face. He pulled his hand away. And
the crucifix swung backward and forward. And he reached again for the
pillow, and the crucifix was still between. And his hands, trembling,
grew tangled in the chain.
“Thou shalt not kill!”--it was not that inner voice; it was a voice like
the girl's, like Valerie's, soft and full of a divine compassion. And
her fingers in tenderness seemed to be working with that bandaged head;
and the dark eyes, deep and steadfast, were searching his soul. “Thou
shalt not kill!”
And with a low, horror-stricken cry, Raymond staggered backward from the
bed, and dropped into a chair, and buried his face in his hands.