A voice said to her inside: “Tell him. Everything. He’ll understand. He’ll believe you. He’ll stand by you.”
But would he? After all, it did look black against her — if you knew the facts. But Terry Ring knew the facts, and he... But she was in his power, that was it. He had some axe of his own to grind. She was a pawn to him — he didn’t really believe her innocent. How could anyone? How could Dick, if he knew? It just wasn’t possible for anyone else to have killed Karen. Terry Ring had said so. It would be too much to expect even from a lover — perfect faith in the face of the most damning facts. And she would never be able to bear Dick’s standing by her if he thought her a murderess.
Everything was against her. That time she had had an argument with Karen... over what? She did not remember. But it was a bitter argument, and Elsie — Karen’s former white maid — had overheard. Of course they would dig up Elsie; they would dig up everyone who had ever been connected with Karen... Then there was the time — only a few months ago — when Dr. MacClure had had his understanding with Karen. Eva had been against it. Eva had always thought Karen strange. She had never liked Karen; everyone knew that. When you analysed it, there was too much shut-in about her, too much mystery, an air of hidden things; and hidden things were so often shameful. And Karen had known. They had always been polite to each other after the Leith-MacClure engagement was settled; but it had been a women’s politeness, sharp and acid underneath. Suppose they found—
“No. Dick!” cried Eva. “No!”
He was surprised at her vehemence. “But, Eva, I thought—”
“It’s different now, Dick. With Karen dead, all this hateful mystery, daddy... I couldn’t now. Not for a while. Please understand, darling. Please.”
“Of course I understand.” He patted her hand. But she knew he did not; there was something almost queer in the depths of his eyes. “I’m sorry. Shouldn’t have suggested it. I only thought it might help—”
“I know Dick. You’re the dearest dear. Oh, Dick!”
She cried then, against him, and he seemed to take a rather absent comfort from her tears. They sat there in the center of the noisy room, oblivious to everything.
Then Terry Ring said: “Hello. Pulling the weeps again?”
Eva sat up like a shot. He was smiling down at them, as cool and immaculate and unruffled as if murders and crying women and dangerous secrets were part of his everyday existence.
Dr. Scott rose, and the two big men looked at each other. “Who’s this?” he said abruptly. “Why don’t you fellows let her alone? Can’t you see what a shock she’s had?”
“Dick,” said Eva, putting her hand on his arm. “You don’t understand. This is the gentleman who... who came in when I found... This is Mr. Ring.”
“Oh. Sorry.” Dr. Scott colored. “Nasty business.”
“Uh-huh,” said Mr. Ring, and then he looked at Eva. There was a question and a warning in his gray eyes. Eva almost gasped. The pure, unadulterated nerve! Warning her not to say anything to her own fiancé.
But then Eva remembered that she hadn’t said anything to her own fiancé after all, and why; and she felt so miserable and alone she almost burst into tears again, only she had no more tears left. She could only sit there dumbly and, for the second time in a few months, but with much more point, wish herself completely and peacefully dead.
9
Tuesday passed blurrily. Eva had to go down to Police Headquarters. Terry Ring was there; he did not speak to her. Dr. Scott was a little stiff in the iron surroundings, but he stood by her and tried to defend her from everything. There were statements to sign and more questions to answer. Eva did not eat all day. In the evening Dr. Scott took her back to the MacClure apartment in the East Sixties. There was a cable waiting from Dr. MacClure.
It said simply: “Do not worry. Docking Wednesday A.M. Chin up. Love. Dad.”
Eva wailed at the magnificence of it and completely ignored the pile of telephone messages on the foyer table — condolences from friends which had poured in all day and driven poor black Venetia crazy. Eva flung herself on the maple bed and let Dr. Scott put cold compresses to her forehead. The telephone rang, and Venetia reported that it was a Mr. Terence Ring on the wire. Dr. Scott growled that Miss MacClure was not at home, and Eva did not have the strength to argue.
He gave Eva something nasty to drink and she fell asleep. When she awoke at ten he was still sitting by her, scowling at the window. He went into the kitchen and came back, and a little later Venetia brought some hot soup. Eva felt so drowsy she fell asleep over the soup and did not know until next morning that Dr. Scott had flung himself on the living-room divan and slept there in his clothes all night, to the complete horrification of Venetia, whose sturdy Baptist soul was constantly rebelling at the loosenesses of modern life.
Wednesday morning on the way to the midtown pier they had to dodge reporters like a pair of fleeing criminals. But when they finally reached the sanctuary of the big shed there was Terry Ring, in a honey-colored gabardine suit and a brown shirt and a yellow tie, lounging near the Customs desk and looking bored. He did not even glance at them. Dr. Scott surveyed the tall tan figure with a wrinkle between his eyes.
The doctor left Eva in the waiting-room and hurried off for information. No sooner had he gone than Eva looked up to find the brown man before her.
“Hi, gorgeous,” said Terry. “Look better this morning. Where’d you get that hat? It looks swell.”
“Mr. Ring,” said Eva hurriedly, glancing about.
“Terry to you.”
“Terry. I didn’t get a chance to thank you for all you—”
“Skip it. I’m a dope. Listen, Eva.” He said it so naturally Eva scarcely noticed it. “Did you spill the real story to your boyfriend?”
Eva looked down at her perforated pigskin gloves. “No.”
“That’s a smart girl.” She was angry with herself for not wanting to look up at him. “Just keep on keeping your mouth shut.”
“No,” said Eva.
“I say yes!”
“No. Please. I couldn’t keep it from my father. It’s not right, Mr. Ring.”
“Terry.” She knew he was angry by the growl in his voice. “Don’t you realize the jam you’re in? First you’re smart, then you’re dumb!”
“Terry.” Eva felt she had to say it. “Just what is it you’re helping me for?”
He did not answer. She looked up then, and saw his eyes flickering in an embarrassed and yet furious way.
“If it’s money,” said Eva quickly, “I—”
She thought he would strike her then and there, in full view of the waiting-room. “Listen to me. Listen to me.” He stooped, his brown face mahogany with passion. Then it went suddenly mauve and he said quietly: “How much you got?”
“Oh,” said Eva. “I’m so sorry.”
“Afraid I was going to shake you down, huh? Don’t you ever say anything like that to me again.”
Eva felt terribly ashamed; she put her gloved hand on his arm, but he jerked it away and stood straight again. Under the front dip of her yellow coolie felt she saw his fists open and close.
“I’m really sorry, Terry. But what could I think?”
“Because I’m a roughneck. Huh!”
“I don’t know why you’re doing this for me—”
“I’m a guy in a tin shirt. I go around rescuing maidens in distress.”
“But if I can trust a perfect stranger, then surely I can confide in my own father?”
“Suit yourself.”
“And then I can’t put you in any more danger than—”