“But I offered to pay him,” Mrs. Vista said at last. “I’m sure he’ll come back.”
Joyce was watching the two figures move across the snow, her face expressionless.
“Of course,” she said slowly. “Of course he’s not coming back. You know who he is now.”
“That laugh,” Maudie said. “It sounded like her.”
“Of course,” Joyce said. “He’s Harry Rudd. He’s her brother.”
“Her brother,” Gracie said huskily. “Then she was right. She wasn’t as crazy as you all thought she was.” Her voice rose. “I knew she wasn’t! Don’t let him get away! He’s a murderer!”
Paula said, “There’s nothing we can do. We’d better go back in the house and wait.”
“Wait for what?” Mrs. Vista said bitterly.
“Mr. Dubois will send someone to rescue us,” Paula said. “I’m sure he will.”
But no one moved from the veranda. It was as if they had to keep Crawford and Dubois in sight as long as they could, they had to preserve this contact with the outside world. They squinted against the sun and watched the two figures become smaller until they were like ants on a sheet of paper stretching to the horizon, its whiteness broken only by scattered etchings of black winter trees.
15
Crawford began to breathe heavily and there was a sharp pain in his lungs when he drew in the cold air. He stopped a minute to put his hand to his heart.
Across from him Dubois instantly braked his skis. “Don’t,” he said. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”
“Look who’s talking,” Crawford said. “Very suspicious, aren’t you?”
“That is correct.”
“Maybe you’d like me to keep my hands in the air?”
“Very much, but I shall not ask you to. You have been useful, Rudd. I hope you have sufficient sense to keep on being useful. Shall we start again?” He did not move until Rudd did, and this time he shortened the distance between them so that they went along side by side about two yards apart.
Rudd was tiring, he could see that. He’d have to be allowed to rest frequently. If they both had skis they could be at Chapelle in two hours. As it was they’d have to take a chance and make for Gauthier’s farm. Gauthier was a fervent member of the French Canada for Frenchmen organization and he’d better be willing to prove his fervency. Perhaps they could both stay at Gauthier’s for a time, or perhaps Rudd had better be left there alone.
“Where are we heading?” Rudd said, as if aware of Dubois’ thoughts.
“Marcel Gauthier’s,” Dubois said.
“All right.” Funny, Rudd thought, I never even asked that before. I’m so used to his planning, so used to trusting him. But from now on, that’s out. I’m me, and to hell with him.
His legs were beginning to ache from exertion. He hadn’t been on snowshoes since he was twenty — probably these same snowshoes, he thought — and the sight of Dubois skimming lightly over the snow on skis filled him with resentment.
He paused again, panting, and just as he had before, Dubois stopped on a dime and looked across at him.
“Tired?” he said.
“Sure. What in hell do you expect?” Rudd said. “How about trading for a while?”
“That is suitable to me if you give me your gun,” Dubois said. “A disadvantage must be balanced by an advantage.”
Crawford patted his pocket and laughed. “The gun stays by me.”
“As you say.”
“I’ve got you, haven’t I? You can’t make time with me, but try going without me...”
“You are too emotional,” Dubois said flatly. “Come along. Someone may have found the bus by this time, even though I left it on a side road.”
“I suppose you’re still blaming me for not being able to start it,” Rudd said. “The engine was screwy.”
“Excuses are nothing to me. I meet them every day.”
“You bungled worse than I did!”
“I was unable to continue in the blizzard, and my foot was nearly frozen. And I had had nothing to eat and no rest all night.”
“So you came back,” Rudd jeered.
“I came back, yes, hardly expecting that you had brought guests with you.”
“I told you. It was inevitable. I couldn’t help it. If you’d let me drive the bus in the first place none of this would have happened. You could have gotten out of the bus, picked up the skis and supplies from Floraine and continued on your way north. And I could have driven right on to the Chateau. The police didn’t want me then. I was safe. I would have been just another one of the guests.”
“I did not trust your driving,” Dubois said. “Events proved me correct, did they not?”
“The whole scheme was screwy in the first place.”
“There was no time for other arrangements,” Dubois said harshly. “And there is no time for talking now. You do not seem to realize the danger.”
“Danger, hell!” Rudd said with a laugh.
“You will be wanted for murder,” Dubois said quietly.
“They’ll never catch me. I’ll get out of the country. I had to kill that bitch. She was giving me away. She was calling me Harry, and she’d found the newspapers Floraine had saved.”
“What newspapers?”
“The ones with your picture in,” Rudd said. “Isn’t that cute? Floraine saved them. Maybe she wanted to look at your pan now and then for inspiration. My hero Jeanneret! The little French Fuehrer! Maybe I should have kept the papers for a laugh instead of burning them in Isobel’s room.”
“Shut up,” Dubois said, “and come along.”
They moved on, more slowly now. Rudd felt the excitement, the exultation in danger, leaving him. It was as if he were bleeding somewhere inside him, and the blood kept pouring out of his head leaving it blank and fuzzy.
He jerked his head back and forth to keep the blood there, to whip himself up. Then he shaded his eyes with his hand and looked around him. To the left he saw the smoke rising from a lumber camp miles away.
He grinned and thought of himself as Mr. Aldington, lumber man. I was a good Mr. Aldington, he thought. I like that name. I’ll have to use it again. I’ll bet that guy Hearst was surprised. I gave him a hell of a dose, maybe he’s not awake yet.
He found he could get along faster if he kept thinking of things, dangerous exciting things that made the laughter form inside him.
Frances, now. It was funny how that had happened. Isobel had told him to go down into the cellar and fix the furnace. And he had, and there was Frances, hiding behind the furnace. She had said, “Harry, you thief, you murderer!” and she’d come out with a poker in her hand. So he killed her. He hardly felt the strain on his muscles, she stopped breathing so easily. But it was funny, because Isobel and Jeanneret had both been down in the cellar and hadn’t noticed her there.
It was easy to put her in the trunk. She was light and small. But when she was all curled up in there he didn’t like the way her eyes stuck out like marbles. He forced the lids down over them.
If they ever find out I’m Harry Rudd, he thought, that will be their clue. I closed her eyes. Because she was my sister. Like hell that was my reason.
He should have killed her long ago. She was a nuisance. He had to pay good money to have her taken care of — her money, sure, but it didn’t do her any good to have money. And she was crazy. Funny how it made you feel, to have a crazy sister. Sometimes when you weren’t feeling good you even suspected you might be crazy, too. But don’t think about that. Think of you. Think of danger. Think of blood and snow and sun.
Too bad he had to leave the country before he could get Frances’ money. But that didn’t matter much, he could always get money some place, he was clever. Damn clever.