Hamper from the car.
Car.
Car!
The car!
Kerrie clung to that conception with desperation, turning it over in her mind, searching the flaws in the thought, probing, exploring, testing.
The car. Tool. It was. It could be. Not a puny tool like a screw-driver. A ram. A battering-ram!
She sat up quickly, reckless now of the exertion, her accelerated breathing, staring wildly at the roadster, at the space between her body and the roadster. About four feet. Not much. But it might be enough. And the rear bumper. It was a fairly heavy span of steel... But starting the car. That meant releasing more fumes. More carbon monoxide. It would cut short what remained of her life.
The drums in her head banged louder. She blinked, trying to bring the rear bumper into focus. Her eyes were giving way. Was that what happened? Oh, to die! Here. Don’t. Think. Chance. Your last, last chance.
Take it!
She rolled feebly over, managed to steady herself on her hands and knees, crept the four long feet to the car. Around the car. Now. Up. Up into the car. Up into the car.
She bit her lower lip with the effort. The pain was remote. She tasted her own blood. Up... The blood dripped from her lip, stained her dress. Up...
How loud the drums were. What was she going to do? Car. Ram. Start the car.
Oh, yes. Key. Where was the key? Key. She had turned off the ignition. What had she done with the key?
Groggily Kerrie looked down at her left hand, felt for it with her right. Both hands swam in a sort of warm and swarming sea of shadow. Key. There it was. In her left hand. She had never let go of it.
She fell forward against the wheel, groping for the ignition keyhole with the point of the key, scratching, scraping, sliding, key in hole, key in hole... She bit her lip again, deliberately, on the bleeding wound. The pain was sharp this time. Sharper. Bite. Again. She cried out. But her eyes cleared for an instant.
It was in. Now. Turn it. Turn it.
Slowly, slowly. There. It turned.
Now. The starter. Right foot. Bring it up. Drag it, push it up. Oh, it won’t move. Damn you... Kerrie took both hands and lifted her right leg from under the knee, carried it forward until the sole of her shoe lay on the starter.
Lean. Press.
The urgent rattle of the starter awakened her a little. She gulped, jerking in an abdominal spasm. The mutter of the motor filled her head. Quickly. Before it’s too late...
Left foot, clutch. Right foot, gas. Hand, shift. Shift. Shift!
Now!
The roadster leaped backward. Thud!
Forward. Backward. Thud!
Not hard enough. Stalled. Start again. Harder. Harder.
“Oh, the drums!” Thud! Forward. Crash! Forward. Crash! Stall... Start. Forward. Crash!
Better. There had been a crackly, splintery sound on that last one. Don’t look around. Hang on to yourself. Keep your stomach down. Hold your head up. Right foot, left foot, one going down as the other goes up. Crash! Now shift into first, forward, stop, reverse, right foot and left foot, one going down as the other goes up! Crash!
It’s going. Oh, it’s going. Think of that. Never stop thinking of that. Maybe just once more. Maybe just. Forward. Reverse. Crash!
Her left and right feet were frozen to the clutch and gas pedals as the roadster burst through the double-door, as she lay across the wheel fighting the world of falling shadows, the sickness in her body, the roaring in her head... burst through into the black night, rode over the door’s defeated, splintered body, careened as the weight of her body shifted the wheel, crashed into a broad and ancient beech yards to the side of the low garage building... crashed, snarled, was silent.
As silent as Kerrie who, even as the roadster struck the tree and the shock of the impact jerked her from the driver’s seat and threw her out of the car to lie crumpled on the cold grass, even as unconsciousness embraced her fluidly like the arms of the sea, was sucking the sweet clean breath of the world — sucking, frowning, her bleeding lips and throat and smudged nostrils greedy... sucking, gulping, savoring, breathing the blessed air.
When Beau drove into the grounds of the Cole estate, it was already dark.
He stopped at the servants’ quarters first. His operative, a large stout woman with eyes like steel nailheads, was rocking on the back porch.
“Well?”
“All okay.” The woman squinted at him. “You’re past due, Mr. Rummell. I was getting worried.”
“What happened today?”
“Miss Shawn and Miss Day left early this mornin’ on a picnic, just the two of them. Drove out in Miss Shawn’s roadster. I handed the chef the eatables meself. No chance for a slip-up, Mr. Rummell.”
“Driving off into the country alone!” Beau frowned. “How about Miss Cole? Mr. De Carlos?”
“Miss Cole didn’t leave the grounds all day. She entertained a party of newspaper people on the lawn. They left before dark and she had dinner alone and went up to her room. She called your number in the City just after dinner.”
“I know, I know. How about De Carlos?”
“Mr. De Carlos threw a water-party in the pool for Mr. and Mrs. Goossens and some free-gin lappers in the afternoon. He got drunk on absinthe at four-thirty and had to be helped to his quarters.”
“When did the girls get back from their picnic?”
“Less than an hour ago. Miss Day went right to bed. Miss Shawn drove her roadster round to the garage; butler told me. I guess she’s gone on up to her rooms.”
Beau drove back to the house. He went upstairs and knocked on Kerrie’s door.
He knocked again, listening; then he tried the door and found it unlocked. He pushed it open, went in, snapped on the light, and looked around.
Not there.
He was about to cross to the boudoir door when it opened and Violet Day, in a mauve satin négligé, her hair in two blonde braids down her back, her eyes half-closed in the light, as if she had been in darkness for some time, stood in the doorway.
There was a snub-nosed automatic in her left hand, and it was pointed at Beau’s breast.
“Oh, it’s you,” said Vi. But she did not lower the automatic. “What do you think you’re doing, pussyfooting around in Kerrie’s bedroom?”
“Where is she?”
“Kerrie? Isn’t she here?” A shadow passed over Vi’s face; she looked quickly about. “But I thought—”
“Put that pea-shooter down before you hurt somebody!” Vi’s arm sank. “Now where is she?”
“I came up here and she drove around to the garage to put the car away.”
“When?”
“Almost an hour ago. I was just dozing off when you—”
But Beau was gone.
He drove towards the garage. As he approached, he saw the unmoving shine of two headlights. He jumped out and ran over to Kerrie’s roadster. It was backed against a big beech tree, and it was empty.
Puzzled, Beau followed the parallel lines of the roadster’s headlights. Then he saw the broken door of the second garage compartment. He ran over and examined it. There was no lock on the fallen door. He rose, sniffing. Exhaust smell. But he could hear no sound of a running motor; and all five of the other garage stalls were closed and silent.
He sprinted back to the roadster. “Kerrie! Kerrie Shawn!”
There was no answer, and he began to circle the roadster. With a flashlight he examined the rear of the car; it was battered, its bumper hanging crazily. Then he went on and saw Kerrie lying still in the grass.