The best trick of all had been getting them to look for Frances when he knew she was dead. It gave him a perfect excuse for going away with Jeanneret — they had to go for help. It made the escape easy.
Too bad he couldn’t stop laughing there at the end...
Dubois had stopped suddenly and was pointing his finger to the left.
“Look,” he said. “Look over there, southeast. Do you see anything?”
“Smoke,” Rudd said, shading his eyes.
“No. Something moving.”
“Smoke moves.”
“Yes. Yes, I guess it is smoke,” Dubois said uneasily. “My eyes are badly affected by this sun.”
“Yes, it’s strong,” Rudd said, and there was something in his voice that made Dubois stare at him. But there seemed nothing unusual about Rudd, he always had the crazy glitter in his eye. He’d never attempt anything on me...
Smoke, Rudd thought, he thinks it’s smoke.
He looked again, and the smoke was there, too, but there was something else, like a moving fountain of snow. A snow-plow truck, Rudd thought. It was coming at them at right angles, and if it moved fast enough they’d be cut off.
We’ll be cut off, Rudd thought, but that won’t matter to Jeanneret. He can ski ahead, he can ski faster than a truck can go on these roads. He wouldn’t even have to follow the roads. Jeanneret was all right. He had the skis.
But I have the gun. And if I have the gun I can have the skis.
But he’d have to watch Jeanneret, wait for his chance. Jeanneret was smooth and suspicious. And strong. Strong as an ox, but bullets can kill an ox. He wasn’t as strong as a bullet.
It would be pleasant to kill Jeanneret and see his blood running out of him and making red slush of the snow. Maybe it was even his duty to kill him, to still that voice which sounded like Hitler’s when he was excited, the voice that swayed peasant and student alike. Little Hitler. Little traitor.
I will kill him. I will kill him because he is a traitor and because I don’t like his face and because I want his skis. I have three reasons. That is enough.
He turned and saw that Jeanneret was looking at him and that Jeanneret was afraid.
“It’s not smoke,” Rudd said. “I think it’s a truck. I think I want your skis.”
Jeanneret did not speak. His hands seemed limp on the poles and his eyelids were twitching.
“I think I’ll kill you,” Rudd said. His hand was in his pocket and the butt of the gun was smooth and hard and satisfying.
“Don’t be crazy,” Jeanneret said. “Don’t be crazy...”
“I’m not crazy. My head feels very clear. I feel very good.”
“Don’t... I paid you. I paid you. You can’t turn on me. I paid you! Don’t... don’t...”
He fell forward on his knees with his arms outstretched.
“I feel swell,” Rudd said. “Little Hitler, here it is.”
Jeanneret toppled, almost without sound, clutching his heart with his hands. The blood spurted out between his fingers.
Rudd stood motionless, watching him. He did not even put his gun back in his pocket but held it, prepared to shoot again. The blood fascinated him. It was like melted rubies.
Jeanneret died without a groan. Rudd touched him with the tip of his snowshoe.
“French Canada for Frenchmen,” he said, laughing. “Here’s your part of French Canada. Six feet by two feet. That big enough for you? Sure it is. You’re not as big as you thought you were. One lousy little bullet. A cinch, Jeanneret. Heil, punk.”
He put the gun back in his pocket. In the southeast the moving white fountain looked bigger. He was sure now it was a truck. Maybe with a policeman in it. Maybe Hearst had wakened sooner than he expected him to.
He bent over and took off his snowshoes. There was blood on the tip where he’d touched Jeanneret.
He slipped the pole straps off Jeanneret’s wrists and the blood dripped down the poles. He rolled them over and over in the snow to get the blood off. Then he took the skis off Jeanneret’s feet and tossed them to the side.
He buried Jeanneret by pushing him into the snow as deep as he’d go and when he wouldn’t go any deeper he stood on him, balancing himself with the poles.
They”ll find him some time in the spring, Rudd thought. And by that time — hell, by that time I’ll be in South America, or Florida. I think I’ll be Mr. Aldington in Florida.
He pushed some more snow on Jeanneret’s body and said again, “Heil, punk!”
Then, almost without hurry, he began to put the skis on.
The snow-plow truck was coming closer, but he didn’t look at it again until he was ready to leave. Then he thrust the poles into the snow, and with his head raised in challenge he shouted:
“Come and get me! Come and get me, you bastards!”
He slid ahead, laughing to himself. His head felt clear and there were noises inside it like the bells of danger.
16
The sound of the shot reached the veranda like the snapping of a thin thread.
Chad said, “We’ll go inside now. No sense in waiting...”
“What was that noise?” Mrs. Vista said.
“How should I know?” Chad said. “Come inside.”
Paula looked at him levelly. “You know what it was. It was a...”
“Dry up,” he said.
“It was what?” Mrs. Vista said irritably. “Speak up, girl.”
“It was a shot,” Paula said.
Mrs. Vista blinked. “A shot? A gun, you mean?”
“Probably some farmer shooting rabbits,” Chad said. “Sound travels quite a distance in this air. Nothing to get excited about. Let’s go inside.”
Mrs. Vista gave him a glance from her shrewd little eyes, but Chad’s face remained expressionless. Perhaps it was a farmer, she thought, and even if it were not it was far, far better to believe it was. She took Mr. Goodwin’s arm, and leaning on it heavily she followed the Thropples and Mr. Hunter back into the house.
“Go in, too, Paula,” Chad said flatly.
“Are you coming?”
“Later.”
“Why not now?” She nodded her head in the direction of Joyce who stood at the far end of the veranda, her eyes still fixed on the horizon. “Because of her?”
“No,” Chad said. “I thought you and Miss Morning could go up and attend to Isobel.”
Paula hesitated and her face looked sulky and defiant.
“I didn’t like the way she looked,” Chad added.
“You’re just getting rid of me.”
“That’s what you want, isn’t it? Be reasonable just this once. Let your right hand know what your left is doing.”
A slow flush spread over her face. Then, without any warning, she raised her hand and dealt him a stinging blow on the cheek.
“That’s what my right hand is doing,” she said in a high tearful voice.
“All right,” Chad said quietly. “Now how about your left? You got that figured out, too?”
She raised her left hand and then dropped it wearily and walked into the house. Her face was pale and stiff. I’ve hit him. I’ve hit someone. I haven’t any control. I’m jealous, jealous — I love him...
She began to cry and whisper through her sobs. “I love him. I love him. I’m jealous of him and I love him.”
“Sure you do,” Gracie said from the staircase. “And so what. Are you coming?”
Sniffling and wiping her eyes, Paula followed Gracie slowly up the steps. When the door closed behind Paula, Chad walked quickly over to Joyce.
“Can you still see them?”
“One of them,” Joyce said. “Crawford had the gun, so I guess what I see is Crawford, or Rudd.”
Chad scanned the horizon but could see nothing. “You have good eyesight, haven’t you?”