“Oh, yes. The little old woman who ate the grapes.” He flung a quick uncertain glance at Sands. “Well, at least nobody could claim that was anything but an accident.”
“Nobody has.”
“And Lucille herself, and the Greeley fellow, and now Edith — all accidents.”
“If you plan accidents,” Sands said grimly, “then they are no longer accidents.”
Andrew laughed. “Ah, yes. Like the emergency.” He sobered at the look on Sands’ face. He felt that he must somehow deflect that cold direct gaze. “What were we talking about?”
“Accidents.”
“And the diary, yes. I didn’t imagine Edith would do anything so preposterous as sending it to Janet Green.”
“Why did you give her the diary to read?”
“I told you, she found it in my room, I thought she would be interested in it.”
“No. I think you were making one of your experiments. On Edith’s mind, this time. When you first read the diary it threw you completely. You wanted to see what it would do to Edith.”
“When I first read the diary?” Andrew repeated. “Why, I’ve had it for years, as I told Edith.”
“But once she’d read it she didn’t believe you. Any more than I do. I think you found the diary two weeks ago last Sunday.”
They were both silent. The words spun between them — two weeks ago last Sunday — and Sands could picture Polly sitting in his office yesterday morning, saying blankly: “It was the most ordinary Sunday... Father couldn’t find something, as usual, his scarf, I think it was...”
“You couldn’t have had the diary all this time,” Sands said, “without knowing that Lucille had killed your first wife. And having that knowledge you could never have lived with her for fifteen years. It is humanly impossible.”
A door opened at the end of the hall and Martin came out. Though he walked slowly Sands had the impression that he was holding himself back, that if he thought no one was looking he would bound along the hall, as buoyant and unfeeling as an animal.
“Oh, there you are, Father,” Martin said, and his voice too gave the impression of carefully imposed restraint. His eyes strayed to Edith’s door and then back to his father. “Conference in the hall?”
“Mr. Sands and I are talking,” Andrew said.
Martin raised his brows. “Not by any chance about me? You’re looking very guilty.”
“Guilty?” Andrew laughed, but one of his hands crept up toward his face as if to smooth away the lines of guilt. “It’s difficult for you to believe, Martin, but people frequently talk about other things than you.”
“Granted.”
“I... Polly is not here. She’s gone down to meet Lieutenant Frome. I expect they’ll be married this, afternoon.”
Martin flicked another glance toward Edith’s door. “Nice day for it.”
“My suggestion entirely,” Sands said.
“Don’t bother with explanations,” Andrew told him curtly, and turned back to Martin. “I want you to go down there now — where is it? — the Ford Hotel?”
“Yes.”
“Go down there now. I... well, I forgot to give Polly some money. I’ll write a check and you can take it down to her and — and wish her luck. Wish her luck for me, Martin.”
“This is a damn funny time to ask me to go traipsing around with checks and touching messages.”
“I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. Come downstairs and I’ll write the check.”
He went to the staircase, and after a moment’s hesitation Martin followed him, frowning at Sands as he passed him. If Sands had not been there he would have made an issue of it and insisted on an explanation from his father. But Sands was there and in some strange way allied with Andrew, and together the two men had a personal ascendancy that Martin would not defy.
Besides, he was a sophisticated young man and dared not show surprise. In the study he accepted the check from Andrew docilely, but with a quirk of his mouth to show that he was not in any way impressed.
“Wish her luck,” Andrew said again.
“Sure,” Martin said, and departed with a debonair wave of his hand.
The sophisticate, Sands thought, the man about town, the babe swaddled by Brooks Brothers.
“Sit down and make yourself comfortable, Mr. Sands,” Andrew said. “We have quite a lot to talk about. Cigarette?”
“Thanks.”
“Do you mind if I close this door?”
“Not at all.”
“I wouldn’t want the maids to hear me talking about my murders. It might destroy their faith in doctors.” He closed the door. “Murders, I don’t know how many, or how many causes... Faulty diagnosis, too much pressure on the scalpel, bad timing, sheer ignorance and lack of experience... Every time I lost a case I used to brood about it. Then I began to believe that some time between now and the end of time everything would be put right again. In the forever-ever land the dead baby lifted by Caesarean section would have its second chance, would breathe again, and live, and grow beautiful. Mildred called it having faith.”
The smoke from his cigarette slid up his face. “You used the phrase, humanly impossible. Practically nothing is that. A man can endure anything if he believes in ultimate justice, if he believes that somewhere dangling in space is justice and the wicked shall be punished and the good shall be rewarded. That is the working principle of the religion of the people I know. Revenge and reward.”
He leaned forward. “Think of it! Somewhere dangling in space justice, great impartial justice built like a monstrous man straddling the universe. A big fellow, a strong fellow, a kind fellow, but still like us, with sixteen bones in each wrist and his pubic hair modestly covered with a bit of cloth.”
Sands thought, another fallen idealist, the man who expects too much and loses his faith not all at once but gradually and with suspense and bitter doubts.
“Don’t be boyish,” he said, and glanced at his watch. “My friends will be here in five minutes.”
“And then?”
“And then,” Sands said carefully, “I will try to prove that you arc a murderer.”
“You have no proof?”
“Circumstantial evidence only. Quite a bit of it in Greeley’s case. You had the means of committing the murder and you were around at the crucial time.”
“So were a lot of other people.”
“True. Then Miss Green’s death offers no problem to you. You can only be charged there with moral guilt, moral irresponsibility. Evil and fear grow like cancer cells, inexorably, aimlessly, destroying whatever they touch. Cora Green was one of its victims.” He blinked his eyes, dreamily. “Circumstantial evidence only,” he repeated. “Perhaps we’ll have to wait for that big fellow straddling the universe to get you.”
“I’m not afraid of him.”
“What?” Sands said in an exaggerated drawl. “And him so big and full of vitamins?”
They both smiled but there was a glint of rage in Andrew’s eyes and he crushed out his cigarette with a gesture that was almost savage.
“You are making me out a fool and a villain. I am neither. I am an ordinary man, and if out-of-the-ordinary things occurred to me, they occurred naturally. You understand? They just happened. You said it yourself. I was not looking for that diary when I found it, I had forgotten there was such a thing. I was looking for the scarf Lucille gave me last Christmas, a black scarf with little gray designs on it.”
“Black? With little gray designs? It sounds terribly cute.”
He leaned back, watching Andrew lazily as if the whole episode was a mildly amusing joke.
A flush of anger rose slowly up Andrew’s face. He knew that Sands was baiting him, that he must control himself. But he felt too that he must impress the man and make him realize that he was not a child to be laughed aside.