In his room Chad closed the door, locked it and flung the keys on the bed.
“Can’t you scream yet?”
Paula shook her head.
“You’d better try. This is your last chance. Come on, try.”
Paula shook her head again. Chad came over and put his hands on her shoulders.
“Paula,” he said dryly, “you’re not putting up much of a fight. Mamma Lashley wouldn’t like that.”
Paula lowered her eyes and said primly, “I don’t believe in fighting.”
He looked at her much as the gorilla looks at his mate when he has something on his mind.
It would have delighted Mrs. Vista had she been there. But she was not there. Having failed to find Anthony she was in the lobby passing the time with Putzi, whose name turned out to be Herman Grube.
Mr. Grube proved disappointing. He kept looking sternly first at his watch, then at the elevator door. He did not seem interested in Mrs. Vista’s personal reactions to the Anschluss, and he was not, Mrs. Vista found, very amiable.
Far, far too serious, she decided. One could never imagine him swinging gaily to the strains of a Viennese waltz. Ah well, one never could quite trust an Austrian anyway. Look at Hitler.
She was not sorry when Mr. Grube rose, clicked his heels and marched across the lobby. To Isobel, emerging reluctantly from the elevator, he said severely:
“Your lesson. You are late. Permit me to ask you to be on time each morning. My services are valuable.”
Startled by this attack, Isobel found herself explaining weakly, “I’m sorry, I was tired. I was all doped up yesterday, and the night before I shoveled a ton of coal and...” Conscious of the baffled look creeping into Mr. Grube’s eyes, she stopped. “All right. I’m ready now.”
Mr. Grube bowed and led the way across the lobby. These American ladies, he thought gloomily, they do not seem sense-making. Isobel, in her bright orange ski suit with the price tag swinging waggishly just over her rear, followed him outside. She had chosen the color especially, because she wanted all other skiers to see her plainly and be able to fend for themselves.
Mr. Grube, however, intimated in his subtle Central European way that he did not like the ski suit.
“The color,” he said. “It is not correct. For contrast with the snow it requires merely a touch of brilliant color.”
“So,” Isobel said.
“So,” said Mr. Grube sternly. “Here we halt.”
He took her skis, examined them carefully, made a disapproving noise, and then showed her how to carry them.
“Now that we’re alone together,” Isobel said, “you can cut out the act, Mr. Schultz.”
Mr. Grube stared at her.
“I beg your pardon, Madame?”
“Just skip the temperament. I know all about you. A friend of mine told me.”
“Madame?” Mr. Grube said, looking baffled again. “You feel entirely well?”
“She said the nearest you’ve been to Austria is the World’s Fair. You come from Ontario and your name is Schultz. Well, I don’t mind that part, but I’d like to make our relations clear.”
Mr. Grube opened his mouth and let out a feeble laugh. “Ha, ha, ha. You are one of these who joke!”
Isobel felt her face becoming warm. “Come on, Mr. Schultz. You might as well admit it.”
“I admit it!” Mr. Grube said with desperate gaiety. “The lesson. We proceed. How you joke, ha ha!”
He showed her how to fasten her skis.
“The heels must be free.”
“Heels free. Yes, Mr. Schultz.”
He looked at her sideways and edged away.
“The knees bent. Notice me.”
“The knees bent. Yes, Mr. Schultz.”
“Madame will please use my correct name, Grube,” he said earnestly. “I cannot concentrate when I am made mock of.”
He sounded so intense that Isobel looked across at him. His eyes were wide and completely bewildered.
She swallowed and said, “You know the girl who’s going to dance at the Lodge?”
“Girl? Dance?”
“You know, dance for the guests as in a night club. She said you helped her get her job.”
“Madame,” Mr. Grube said simply, “I am confused. We do not hire dancers. Our entertainment is all sporting. I know no such girl.”
“You must know her!” Isobel cried. “She knows you. You got her this job. Really, this has gone far enough!”
“It has,” Mr. Grube said. “My name is not Schultz.”
He was sweating now, and casting anguished glances back at the Lodge.
“Well,” Isobel said weakly. “Well, well.”
“You have had sufficient lesson?” Mr. Grube said hopefully. “You are tired? The sun is too strong for you, perhaps?”
“Yes,” Isobel said. “Take these silly things off my feet. I’ve got business to attend to.”
Mr. Grube moved with great agility. Isobel left him staring thoughtfully first at her skis which he held, and then at her back.
She went into the lobby and looked around. Joyce and Mr. Hunter were talking to the Thropples beside the desk. Joyce waved and Isobel came over to her. With unexpected friendliness, Joyce tucked her hand inside Isobel’s arm.
“Had your lesson?” she asked.
“Not exactly,” Isobel said. “I’m looking for Gracie. Has anyone seen her?”
“Don’t be in a hurry,” Joyce said, drawing her aside. “I’ve just been talking to Sergeant Mackay in Briaree. I rang him up as soon as the wires were fixed. He said that Crawford was shot resisting arrest and that Floraine died of heart failure.” She lowered her voice. “You’re very lucky. I was afraid they’d catch on to you.”
“What?” Isobel said blankly. “What did you say?”
“Oh, I’m not going to tell anyone, naturally. But I was pretty sure right from the first. Sexual conflict. The perfect motive. You fought with her over Crawford, when you found out she was Crawford’s mistress. I heard you quarreling with her right after the cat was found.”
“You must be crazy,” Isobel said. “We were arguing about her putting the cat in the furnace! I never even knew she was Crawford’s...”
“Sh!” Joyce said. “That’s your story and it’s very wise to stick to it.” She gave Isobel a long narrow look. “You have strength of character, Miss Seton. I have decided to withdraw my objections to a rapprochement between Poppa and you.”
Isobel gazed at her wordlessly.
“I think it would be intensely interesting to have a woman like you for a stepmother, and I do believe you can handle Poppa. I’ve been worried about leaving him alone when the time comes when I myself shall seek a mate. Poppa needs a firm hand. And so I give him to you.”
With a gracious smile she went back to her father.
“Your key, Miss Seton?” said Monsieur Roche. “You wish the key?”
Isobel turned sharply. “No, thanks. Tell me, is Miss Morning still in her room?”
“Morning, Morning,” said Monsieur Roche. “Yes. Morning. Yes. Room two-ten.”
“Thank you.”
She took the elevator upstairs and walked slowly along the hall. Two sentences flashed like neon before her eyes:
Miss Rudd was let out after Floraine screamed.
Gracie let her out. She rapped on Gracie’s door, and a cheerful voice sang out, “Come on in!” Then Gracie herself opened the door. “Oh, it’s you. Well, come in. I’m doing my hair. What’s the matter with you?”
Isobel shut the door and leaned against it. She said, “I think you killed Floraine.”
Gracie’s comb clattered to the floor. She leaned over to pick it up. “That’s a funny thing to say,” she said warily.
“I was stupid not to have known it before. You let Miss Rudd out of her room.”