“Of course,” she replied, without turning. “Inside and out. I think Rudd is crazy. He acts like a maniac.”
“What if he’s killed Dubois?”
Joyce turned then and gave him a half-pitying smile. “That wouldn’t make any difference to us. You don’t suppose Mr. Dubois intended to send help to us, do you? You are very naïve.”
“What in hell are you talking about?”
“Naïveté seems to be as congenital as color blindness. I really believe I was sophisticated at two. I don’t suppose Dubois is even his real name.”
“Go on,” Chad said grimly.
“As soon as I saw him,” Joyce said in a dreamy and exasperating voice, “I recognized the pimples at the back of his neck. And of course, even aside from that, pure logic indicated that he would have to be the bus driver.”
“I suppose you were as logical at two as you were sophisticated.”
“Naturally,” Joyce said modestly. “I mean, Dubois’ arrival was coincidental. I don’t suppose many skiers do get lost, and it seemed far too peculiar that we should lose a bus driver and find a lost skier. You understand?”
“You make it very clear. All except one point: why didn’t you tell us?”
“Why should I? I knew everyone would get all emotional and obscure the issue. And the issue was, if Dubois and Crawford were a pair of crooks and murderers, it would be better to have them out of the house. Simple logic, again.”
“Yes,” Chad said weakly.
“Because, of course, we were not actually uncomfortable here except for the presence of a murderer. Now that Rudd is gone we shall calmly await rescue.”
“And you knew about Dubois right from the start?”
“Not actually right at the start. But certainly when he faked being sick at the table. And then it was Crawford-Rudd who hurried to take him out.”
“Why?” Chad said. “Why fake it in the first place?”
“That’s one point I don’t quite see,” Joyce said, frowning. “I think it had something to do with Miss Seton. We’ll have to ask her.”
But Miss Seton was in no condition to answer questions. She slept on, oblivious to the cold wet towels on her face and the urgent commands of Gracie to wake up.
“Maybe she’s dying,” Gracie said. “Maybe they poisoned her.”
“Hush up,” Paula said. “She’s been doped, I think. We’ll have to walk her.”
“Walk her?”
“Walk her. Make her walk up and down the room to wear off the drug.” Paula leaned over the bed and put her arm under one of Isobel’s shoulders and raised her to a sitting position. “Gracie, take her on the other side. Now pull her up on her feet.”
“I don’t think this is such a good idea,” Gracie said, and after a time Paula was forced to agree. Isobel sagged at every joint and though she looked slender she was tall and weighed more than her appearance suggested. They let her fall back on the bed.
“One of her eyelids moved,” Gracie said. “Maybe if we flung her around a little more she’d wake up.”
“Bring more wet towels,” Paula said. She began to move Isobel’s arms up and down, and after ten minutes of this and more cold towels Isobel’s eyelids began to flicker noticeably.
“That’s the girl!” Gracie shouted encouragingly. “That’s right! Wake up!”
Isobel winced and put her hand slowly to her head. “My God,” she whispered. “Who — is — doing — that — shouting?”
Then she opened her eyes and saw Gracie and remembered everything with a rush.
“Where is he?” she said. “You didn’t — you didn’t let him go?”
“Well, we sort of had to,” Gracie explained. “He just sort of left.”
Isobel tried to struggle out of the bed, but there was a curious heaviness in her legs and arms and she had to lie back again, exhausted.
“He wasn’t Dubois,” she whispered urgently. “He wasn’t a skier. He was Jeanneret. The picture in the paper — he was Jeanneret.”
“Well, my goodness,” Gracie said. “What of it? You don’t think my name is Morning, do you? Matter of fact it’s Murphy.”
“Keep quiet,” Paula told her crisply. She looked down at Isobel. “You’d better not try to talk. It won’t do any good. They’re both gone, Dubois and Rudd.”
“Rudd?” Isobel said. “Rudd?”
“Crawford.”
Isobel closed her eyes again.
I am tired, tired, she thought. I mustn’t think now. I will not think about him. I will not think how even talking to him was exciting — no, don’t think. Don’t think.
She moved her head and a slow ache spread through her whole body.
He lived in another world, she thought. He carried it around with him, inside him, and if you looked in at it you were afraid and fascinated and excited all at once.
“Where is he?” she said at last. “Where is he now?”
“They went off together,” Paula said, “he and Dubois.” She thought with a shock: why, she loved him, perhaps the way I love Chad. And he is a murderer...
She said to Gracie, “I think we’ll leave her alone for a while. Could I bring you something, Isobel?”
“No,” Isobel said. “No, nothing.”
“I’ll stay here,” Gracie said.
And she did stay. She sat quietly in a chair for some time, not looking at Isobel.
“Hell,” she said finally, “you’ll meet some other guy some time. Don’t let it throw you. You just let me know and I’ll introduce you to a whole squadron of them. And with your clothes and looks and figure and everything...” Her voice faded.
Isobel opened her eyes and smiled slightly. “Thank you,” she said. “Thanks, Gracie.”
“You weren’t honestly stuck on him anyway. It was just a flash in the pan.”
“A flash in the pan. A very neat description.”
“Write it off as experience,” Gracie said. “God knows you need some.”
“Shall we change the subject?” Isobel said with an impatient gesture of her head.
“We could, but I sort of like this one,” Gracie said cheerfully, “especially now that I know you’re not going off half-cocked. I’m just crazy about romance.” She gazed thoughtfully out of the window. “It’s a funny thing, but I never get much of it. There’s just two kinds of guys in my life, the kind that want to sleep with me and the kind that don’t. So I got to look out for myself.”
Isobel stirred again. “And you do?”
“And I do. You want some more cheering up?”
“No, I guess I’m all cheered up,” Isobel said soberly. She drew in her breath and found she could say his name almost as if it didn’t matter to her. “Crawford — Crawford was Miss Rudd’s brother?”
Gracie nodded silently.
“And he killed her, I suppose. He killed her when I asked him to go down and tend to the fire, and then he came up to the kitchen and I talked to him. He was looking for some brandy...”
“No damn wonder,” Gracie said dryly.
“... and he didn’t turn a hair, he was so natural and cheerful.”
“I guess he was glad to get rid of her,” Gracie said. “It’s kind of hard to have crazy relatives, you know, like my aunt. And Miss Rudd kept giving him away. She kept calling him Harry but nobody caught on except me and then it was too late. I guess he actually was stealing from her, paintings, and furniture and things.”
“Yes,” Isobel said stiffly. “Yes.”
“And Floraine helped him. Seems funny though, that he kept up this house when he could have sent Frances away to an institution.”
“He kept her here because he was ashamed of her,” Isobel said, “and because, I think, this house had been used before by people like Jeanneret, perhaps for political meetings or perhaps for certain people to hide out in. I think Floraine ran the house. I think she was — his mistress.”