She did not hear him move, which proved it was a dream. For when she next opened her eyes he was gone.
But then she turned her head and there he was behind the desk, in the oriel, resting on one knee beside Karen’s body, not touching Karen, not touching the blood, almost not touching the floor he was kneeling on.
Eva could see his hard brown young face clearly, intent on the body. It was like no face she had ever seen; none of the men she knew — not Dr. MacClure, nor Richard Scott — had a face like this. It was perfectly smooth in its brownness, almost hairless, like a mask one molecule thick. Eva would have said it was the face of a boy if not for the hardness, the expressionlessness of it. It was as if a grown man had kept himself alive in a world of enemies by putting up an impenetrable brown shield. He had broad shoulders and large clean brown hands. As he leaned over, Eva could see no trace of wrinkled belly; he was flat and hard there, too, where Richard — where Richard was a little soft. Where Richard... Oh, Richard!.. And his big body was clothed a little too nattily in a gray Palm Beach suit with a dark blue shirt and white silk tie, and he wore a hat a little too rakish — a white leghorn pulled down over one gray eye.
The brown man came to his feet in a bound and began to stalk. From object to object in the room, stalking. That was it, thought Eva; stalking like a hunter. He was looking the place over without touching anything, looking it over and looking for something at the same time. And always he managed to keep her in full view, turning and walking and stopping with a delicate nervous energy that reminded her of a race-horse.
Who was he? Eva thought. Who was he? Once the thought came, it flooded her with panic. Who was he? She had never seen him before. It was inconceivable that he was a friend of Karen’s or of anyone Eva knew — she knew no men like him. He was different even from the race-track gamblers he vaguely resembled, or the strange men who lounged about Times Square.
Who was he? How had he got into the house? Could he have been in the bedroom all the time? But Eva knew it was empty except for Karen when she had burst in. Then why had he come? What was his business? Was he a — gangster? There was what might have been a bulge... Had... he—
Eva’s breath caught, and he was in front of her before she could move. He caught up her two hands and held them in one of his with an easy clutch that hurt her. With the other he gripped her chin and shook her head a little; but her teeth rattled and tears came to her eyes.
“Talk fast, sweetheart.” He spoke like a machine-gun now. “What’s your name?”
She was surprised to hear herself say, in a fascinated way: “Eva. Eva MacClure,” like a child.
From the slightest constriction of his hands she knew that he recognized the name; but his eyes gave no sign.
“What time did you blow in here?”
“Four. About four o’clock.”
“Who spotted you?”
“The maids.”
She wondered idly why she was answering this stranger’s questions, but all the will had gone out of her and she could only respond to stimuli like a jellyfish being poked.
“Jap?”
“Kinumé was up here giving Karen some stationery. I heard Karen’s voice from the sitting-room but didn’t see her. She didn’t know I was here. Kinumé came out and told me Karen was writing. I sent her away and waited.”
“What for?”
“I wanted to talk over — something — something with Karen.”
“How long did you wait?”
“It was four-thirty when the telephone rang in here,” said Eva mechanically. “It kept ringing and finally stopped.” Somehow she knew he knew all about the telephone call; but how he knew it, or how she knew he knew it, she could not have said. “I was frightened and came in here and found — her.”
Her voice somehow got to the end of the sentence. The man was weighing her again, again puzzled. It was remarkable how those gray eyes could hold you...
“What were you doing with the bloody handkerchief?” The handkerchief was at their feet; he kicked it.
“I... I went over to look at Karen and got some blood on my hands from the floor. I wiped it off.”
He released her hands and chin slowly; she felt the blood seep back into the grooves his fingers had made.
“All right, sweetheart,” he said slowly. “I guess you’re too dumb to lie.”
Eva’s knees gave way and she sank to the floor, leaning against the desk and crying and crying, like a fool. The brown man stood over her wide-legged, looking down, still puzzled. Then his legs moved away, and although she could not hear him she knew he was restlessly prowling again.
Richard... If only Richard were here. In his arms she would be safe... safe from this brown man with his terrifying eyes. Oh, if she were only his — for always, married, safe, safe forever. She wished fiercely that she could stop crying, but try as she would she could not. Richard... And her father. But the instant she thought of Dr. MacClure she shut the thought up in a locked closet of her mind. She refused to think of the huge tired man on the high seas.
Glass exploded behind her and something flew over her head to thud in front of her on the floor.
The stranger, who was just about to step on the dais behind her, almost got the missile in his face. His arms went up in a blur to shield his eyes from the spattering glass of the oriel’s central window; and then he and Eva from opposite sides were looking down into the garden from which the missile had come. How she had got up from the floor Eva had no idea. All she remembered was the crash of glass, and then she was in the oriel with the brown man. The blood, the little quiet figure... She found herself pressed against the brown man’s hardness.
But the garden was empty; whoever had broken the window was gone.
Eva began to laugh so hard she thought she would never stop. She rocked against the brown man in little convulsions of mirth, feeling him hard against her, not feeling him at all. Then she stepped down from the dais and swayed against the desk and laughed and laughed until the tears flowed again.
“Throwing stones,” she gasped. “Throwing stones — with Karen... with Karen...”
He slapped her so hard with his open palm that she squealed with pain and shrank away from him, on the edge of collapse.
“I told you to shut up,” he said frowning; but it sounded in the oddest way like an apology.
He turned away from her at once, as if he were ashamed. Not, thought Eva wildly, for having slapped her, but for having been apologetic about it. She watched him, feeling so stupid and empty that unconsciousness would have been a relief.
The stranger looked briefly at the broken window. It was the center window which had been shattered — both panes, for the window was open from the bottom. He stared thoughtfully at the thick vertical iron bars, uniformly six inches apart, which protected all three windows on the outside. Then he went over to look at the rock. On the way he glanced at his wrist watch.
The rock was lying in the middle of the bedroom. It was the most ordinary rock imaginable. Its underside was uppermost, black with bits of loam, some of which was scattered over the floor, and damp-looking, as if it had just been picked up in the garden. It was an oval five inches thick in its long diameter. He prodded it with his foot and turned it over; the other side was clean. And that was all.