There was no answer, but the diminishing sound of running feet. Alice shut the door and leaned against it, suddenly weary and without hope.
The two men were staring at her.
“What did you mean?” Philip said hoarsely. “Where did you find that out?”
Alice walked slowly back into the room. She looked deliberately at Philip. “I eavesdropped.”
“You what?” Johnny said.
There was shock in his face. Alice felt that in a minute he would say, “That’s not cricket!” not because he disapproved of eavesdropping but because it was she, Alice, who had done it.
They don’t think I’m human. They expect so much of me, all of them expect too much of me and always have.
“I eavesdropped,” she repeated, finding a certain pleasure in the word now. “The police wouldn’t tell me anything and I felt it was my right to know. They — just took her away — in a basket — and I had nothing to say about the funeral or the autopsy or inquest. They asked me questions and refused to answer any of mine.”
“High-handed,” Johnny said, “as usual.”
“What can you expect?” Philip said. “Any one of us might have...” His voice faded, emerged again. “Why did she want to kill herself? Because I said I was going away? She knew I wouldn’t go, she knew I couldn’t leave her.”
Alice took the glass Johnny gave her. It was easier to talk to Philip if she had a glass to stare into, somewhere to look so she wouldn’t have to look at his face, so strangely formless now that he no longer had Kelsey to fight against or to live for.
“She tried to kill herself,” Alice said, “for the same reason other people do. Life didn’t suit her. She couldn’t have been content with half-measures. She wouldn’t even try.” She kept her voice calm. “What are we going to do about — her dog?”
“Send him back,” Johnny said. “It takes a long time to train them and it wouldn’t be fair to keep him.” He gulped his drink and his hands were shaking.
Alice stared into her glass. Queer, they could talk about Kelsey and Kelsey’s blindness almost with detachment, but they couldn’t mention the dog without weighting the air with tears. It was as if the dog was a symbol and the symbol had become stronger and realer than what it stood for.
“Better have a drink, Philip,” she said without looking at him.
“No. No, I don’t want — but I’d like...”
“Go ahead and play something if you want to. It will make you feel better.”
“I’d... if you wouldn’t mind...”
Don’t let him cry now, Alice thought. He’s such a fool already, don’t let him cry and break down.
“Something loud,” she said. “There’s too much softness in this house, too much whispering, tiptoeing...”
The policeman, sitting on a garden bench at the side of the house, heard the music. Of course it was kind of funny to hear music in a house of mourning, but if they have it why not something snappy? He began to whistle softly, “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree.”
Mr. Heath heard it and moved to the window to listen. Philip was playing wildly tonight. Dashing brilliant inaccuracy, that was Philip. He had never been as good as Isobel thought he was — but why tell Isobel? And there was no point in telling Philip, he knew it already. He had never arranged a third concert.
He pictured Philip at the piano. How strange he looked when he played, his eyes wild as a tiger’s. You could hardly believe it was Philip.
Mr. Heath smiled and said aloud, “Tiger, tiger, burning bright. Little lamb, who made thee?”
Chapter 12
Stevie stared down at the broken glass, poking a splinter with the toe of his shoe.
“Cheap glass,” he said in a flat voice.
“A dime,” Sands said.
“All right, I owe you a dime. Anything else?”
“Some thanks. I could have taken you down to headquarters.”
“But you brought me here instead, to soften me up with shock, you think.”
“You’re not tough,” Sands said, “and I’m not tough. I thought we’d get along. Come on in and sit down.”
“What if I don’t want to sit down.”
“Stand up then, if you want to be childish.”
“What’s to prevent me from walking out of here?” Stevie said.
Sands smiled briefly. “Not a thing, except your head.”
“You haven’t got a gun?”
“No gun,” Sands said, “and I can’t fight worth a damn.”
Stevie took a step toward him. Sands looked at him steadily.
“On the other hand, I have my weapons. I created this situation. In a very small way I played the disillusioning role of God. I put you on the stage, arranged the properties, and waited for you to do exactly what you did.”
“For Christ’s...”
“I wasn’t sure, that time. This time I am. If you watch enough grasshoppers you know which way they’ll jump. You’re sober enough to know what you’re doing, and you’ve had enough experience tonight of being a fugitive. So you won’t walk out. You’ll come in and sit down. Think it over.”
Sands turned his back and walked without haste into the next room. He looked tired and there was a thin line of white above his mouth. Suppose you hadn’t watched enough grasshoppers...
For five minutes Stevie was alone in the kitchen. He didn’t even have to face Sands again if he wanted to walk out: there was a back door right off the kitchen. All he had to do was go through it and down some steps and he’d be free.
Free. For all of ten minutes he’d be free. Then the patrol cars would start prowling, slick bored voices would reel off his description by radio. They’d get his picture, put it on handbills, even, if he lasted that long, if he didn’t talk to strangers, if his money held out, if he could get out of town and find another job or a friend.
So he didn’t jump.
He found Sands sitting in an easy chair rubbing his eyes.
“All right,” Stevie said. “So here I am, you bastard.”
“Calm down,” Sands said wearily. “Nothing to lose your shirt about.”
“Except assaulting a policeman.”
“You hit Higgins?”
“I hit him.”
“Higgins can be persuaded to forget it — if you can be persuaded to tell me why in hell you were sitting outside the Heath house in your car at approximately three-thirty this morning, while a murder was being committed.”
There was a long silence.
“Well?” Sands said.
“You wouldn’t believe me. I hardly believe myself, that’s how crazy it is.”
“Try me.”
“I wanted to see the house, Johnny Heath’s house.”
“Why?”
“For Christ’s sake, I told you wouldn’t believe me.”
“There’s a reason for everything.”
“All right,” Stevie said. “The reason is, I hate his guts.”
“That makes sense,” Sands said gravely. “People go past houses for love, why not hate? You missed one of your cues, Jordan. You forgot to say, ‘A murder! What murder?’ You knew about it?”
“Marcie told me.”
“Marcie?”
“Heath told her, she told me. Her name’s Marcella Moore.”
“So you knew there was a murder. That’s why you hit Higgins?”
Another silence.
“No,” Stevie said finally.
“You weren’t afraid you’d be arrested for the murder?”
“No.”
“But you hit him and tried to get away. Why?”
Stevie leaned forward in his chair. “Because I don’t want to be murdered, you bastard!”
“Neither do I,” Sands said dryly. “But my methods of avoiding it are less complex than yours. Who wants to murder you?”