“Miss Rudd?”
“Nope.”
“Weevil killer?”
“Getting close.”
“Crawford Special?”
“You have it,” Crawford said. “I am looking for some of that nice fiery liquid that makes Crawford feel he is a king among men.”
“I thought Crawford always felt that way,” Isobel said. “It’s Crawford’s acquaintances that have to be convinced. Move over. I want the teapot.”
Crawford stepped down from the chair and watched her pour out the tea.
“Is that for our skiing champ Dubois?”
“Yes.”
“Nice-looking fellow, Dubois, but he hasn’t my rugged charm. Of course that’s only my opinion.”
“You said it,” Isobel replied coldly. She started to walk away, then turned around again and faced him, frowning. “Mr. Crawford, I want to talk seriously to you.”
Crawford leered at her. “Ha, I knew you’d come around to my way of thinking about me.”
“Did you take away the bus driver’s coat from the closet?”
“Yup.”
“What for?”
“I wanted to examine it in the privacy of my bedroom.”
“I don’t believe it. As far as I can see you’re trying to prevent anyone from finding out anything about anything.”
“Fine, flowery English,” Crawford said. “And don’t breathe on the champ’s tea, Isobel, you’ll freeze it.”
“You are deliberately, willfully, hindering investigation to protect yourself. You don’t want me to find out anything about you...”
“You go carp at the champ, Isobel. I’m busy.”
“Stop calling him the champ! He’s a very nice, polite, sympathetic and intelligent man...”
“You’ll get over this infatuation, Isobel, and then you’ll come back to me. He is dross and chaff, flotsam and jetsam, a homewrecker...”
The door slammed. Crawford gazed at it, grinning. Then he started to whistle and climbed back on the chair and resumed his search for another bottle of brandy. He didn’t find any brandy but he found a pint of Seagram’s rye. With the bottle in his pocket he went upstairs very quietly, and into Isobel’s room. He caught sight of his face in the mirror above the fireplace. It was stiff and triumphant, and he smiled at himself. He was in a tight spot and it excited him, made him reckless.
He moved quickly around the room, with the smile still plastered on his face and the blood racing through his veins.
In three minutes he had found what he wanted, and five minutes after that it was destroyed.
He stood watching the flames leap up the chimney and his triumph bubbled up in his throat. It wasn’t the triumph of winning because he hadn’t won, and there was a good chance that he wouldn’t win — but he liked the challenge, he liked to out-talk and out-think other people, he liked to fight, even when the breaks were all against him as they were now. From the time he had tried to start the bus and failed, his luck had been out.
But he always bounced back somehow. Even Floraine’s death, after the first shock was over, had exhilarated him in some strange perverse way — he knew now he had a mortal enemy in this house, someone who knew him and what he was and someone he didn’t know.
A mortal enemy. Someone who wore a mask like himself, but not so subtly as he wore his. You had to be subtle to carry things off as he did, telling the truth in such a way that you weren’t believed. He was good at that. He had fooled Isobel Seton.
Or have I? he thought in a moment of self-doubt. Have I fooled her? Or has she fooled me? I’d better watch my step.
It would be funny if it were Isobel. Funny and damned exciting and dangerous.
He went back into the hall and stood for a minute, listening. The others were all downstairs. He could search their rooms now if he wanted to, but he knew it wouldn’t be any use. He was up against someone too clever to leave behind any evidence that would crack the mask.
I’ll have to think, think, he said silently, but there was this queer excitement in his head that prevented him from thinking, and he had had too much brandy.
I’ll go down and tell them all that I’ve moved the body, he thought, I’ll get them circulating around again and watch. Perhaps I’ll get them looking for Frances and give them something to do. It will be safer for me not to have them all together.
At the thought of Miss Rudd he frowned suddenly and some of the excitement left him. He had been afraid of her. She had been after him with that chair... yes, she’d better be found. And he didn’t want to be the one to find her.
Upon reaching the dining room he discovered that the rest of the group shared his feeling very strongly.
“I think it would be far, far better,” said Mrs. Vista, “if we all remain in one room and leave Miss Rudd the rest of the house. Don’t you think so, Anthony?”
Mr. Goodwin thought so, yes.
Mr. Hunter coughed gently and said, “I shouldn’t mind looking for Miss Rudd, but I shouldn’t like to find her.”
“Oh, Poppa,” Joyce said petulantly. “You’re always trying to spoil things for me. I think Mr. Crawford is perfectly right. But if we’re going to look for her we shouldn’t go alone, but in pairs.” She looked across at Chad Ross and gave him a dazzling smile. “What do you think, Mr. Ross?”
Chad Ross, receiving a long cold stare from Paula which followed the dazzling smile, said, “No. I mean yes.”
Paula raised her brows. “Just what do you mean?”
Joyce smiled sweetly at her. “He means he’s agreeing with me.”
“Don’t fight over him, ladies,” Crawford said dryly. “I don’t think he can handle both of you.”
Chad looked at him. “You can, I bet.”
“I’d die trying.”
“Are you being coarse?” Mrs. Vista said, gazing at him sternly. “I don’t approve of coarseness, especially in the dining room, in front of minors. Anthony’s poems are sometimes brutally realistic, but never, never coarse, are they, Anthony?”
Mr. Goodwin said no, never.
“Who cares about his poems?” Maudie said irritably.
Mrs. Vista and Mr. Goodwin exchanged sad and knowing glances.
“A philistine,” said Mrs. Vista.
“Quite,” said Mr. Goodwin.
“Hoi polloi.”
“Definitely.”
“An ignoramus.”
“The very word.”
“Are you talking about me?” Maudie demanded. “You triple-chinned, fat-headed old drizzle-puss?”
“Now, Maudie,” Herbert said. “Now, angel.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Crawford said. “I thought we were talking about Miss Rudd.”
“You frog-faced, bat-eyed stinkaroo,” said Maudie.
“The instant I laid eyes on that woman,” Mrs. Vista said regally, “I knew her for what she was. She is coarse.”
“Now, now Maudie,” Herbert said. “Remember your heart. Remember your blood pressure.”
“Remember Miss Rudd?” Crawford said.
“Remember Pearl Harbor,” Gracie said brightly. “I think this is a cute game.”
“Shut up!” Crawford roared. “Everybody shut up except me!”
Crawford’s voice being what it was, everybody shut up more from shock than a willingness to oblige.
Crawford continued, more quietly, “Personally I don’t care whether Miss Rudd slits all your throats. The only throat I’m anxious to protect is my own because the Crawford tenor is famous in bathrooms from coast-to-coast. So if nobody else wants to find her, I do and I will. And when I find her I’ll give her my gun to play with, run like hell into my room, lock the door and let her shoot up the works. How do you like that for a cute game?”
There was a silence. Then Mrs. Vista said thoughtfully, It sounds rather — strenuous. I think perhaps, with certain exceptions, we should all help Mr. Crawford to look for Miss Rudd. One of the exceptions will, naturally, be myself. I no longer possess the necessary élan for such pursuits, to say nothing of the necessary joie de vivre and feu de joie.”