The Unsuspected

is, if she really did—or even if you, for any reason, believe this story.'

Francis found his throat unmanageable. The evil old bird was so full of pity. He was turning it, pretending to be seeing a point of view. He was not worried, not even looking worried. He was not reacting according to plan. The scene wasn't going right. A guilty

man, accused, had no business to look so sorry for his accuser, so successfully sorry.

Grandy said, as if to be fair, 'After all, you are nearly a stranger here. But even so, dear boy, what reason do you imagine I would have had for such a deed as that?' Then, almost gaily, 'Come, Mr. Howard, I must have a motive.'

'My wife's money,' said Francis, 'was and is your motive.'

'Eh?'

“You played around with it. Rosaleen Wright found out.'

'Oh, dear. Oh, dear.' Grandy took off his pince-nez and rubbed his eyes. 'Yes?' he said. The black eyes were brimming with mirthful tears. 'But Mathilda isn't your wife at all, Mr. Howard. You see, we know that.'

Francis heard Jane's gasp. Oh, good girl, Jane. He said aloud, coldly, 'Would you be willing to let me or anyone examine the records of the Frazier fortune?'

'Certainly,' said Grandy. 'This does seem so silly. As for Althea's story, what occurs to me, Mr. Howard, is the thought that Althea told no story. I think you invented it.'

'Two of us invented it?'

'That's not impossible,' said Grandy smoothly. 'Who is your—er— corroborator?'

'In view of my opinion of you,' said Francis evenly, 'I don't believe I care to say.'

Grandy leaned back. 'You don't mean it,' he challenged. 'You're not serious.'

“I'm serious.”

'Isn't it too bad,' said Grandy in a moment, 'that Althea isn't here to help us? Oh, I see! I see! That's why I'm supposed to have done her in? Well, really, that's not unsound. That's good thriller-level reasoning, Mr. Howard.'

Francis bit on his cheek. 'Also,' he said, struggling to stay calm and seem confident, 'there is Rosaleen's false suicide note. Cribbed out of an old book. What did you do? Ask her to copy it one day?'

Grandy's face fell. 'Poor Rosaleen. Poor child ' he crooned. 'I didn't like to point out what she'd done. Poor sick little mind! Did we delve too much, I wonder, into old crimes and ancient madness?'

'Sick mind, my eye!' Francis shot up out of his chair. 'And Althea was sick, too, wasn't she? Although nobody saw any signs of it but you. What will Mathilda be when her time comes? Or anybody else you decide to get rid of? Let me show you something now.' He slammed the paper down on the desk, keeping his palm on it. “That's Mathilda's will. And I warn you, see to it that Mathilda doesn't diet Because, if she does, I don't think you'll care to have me and my lawyers going into financial history.'

Grandy's eyes flickered. Francis held his breath, but the old man's hand was steady. He touched the paper. He read it. He took off his pince-nez and looked up.

'A forgery,' he said softly. Brown eyes met black. Jane in her corner trembled.

'Do I see it all now?' mused Grandy, cocking his head. 'Did you think she was lost at sea? Did you think you'd cut a piece of money with your fantastic story? I can understand so far, yes, indeed. But what are you up to now? Ah! Am I to pay you for suppressing your little ideas?'

Francis could have wrung his skinny neck. Might have done so, indeed, if Jane hadn't cried out.

'There now, you've frightened Jane,' said Grandy in pouting reproach. There was no breaking there, no self-betrayal, no guilty squirm, no fear in this man. He was untouched, bland, confident, and the voice was sirup- smooth. Francis knew himself to be too angry to think, to have been outdone in self-control, and out- bluffed.

He turned and said stiffly to Jane, Tm sorry if I frightened you.' He said to Grandy, as quietly as he could, “I'll take my little ideas to Gahagen, then.'

'Dear boy,' said Grandy warmly, 'if you believe all that nonsense, you most certainly should go to Gahagen or someone. Besides,' he added ruefully, 'although for my part, I only wish I could help you—I'm afraid you do need help rather badly—still, I did rather promise Tyl to kick you out the door.'

Francis said, 'Don't bother, Mr. Grandison.' He left the room.

When he had gone, Jane thought, For my life, for my life. She twisted her hands, filled her china-blue eyes with horror. 'Oh, Mr. Grandison, wasn't he awful?'

'Poor chap,' said Grandy. 'The fellow s a fraud, of course. My poor Tyl —'

'Oh, Mr. Grandison!' cried Jane, for her life. 'Nobody's going to believe anything he says! He was just trying to make trouble!'

'And well he may make trouble,' said Grandy. He put his hands to his forehead wearily. 'Run, fetch me some coffee, my dear. That's a good girl. Yes, do.'

'Oh, Mr. Grandison!' quavered Jane, still acting for her life. 'I can't tell you how sorry I feel that you have to be bothered—'

She got out the door and stood trying to control a fit of nervous shaking.

Grandy drew over his desk phone, gave a number. 'Press? . . . Ah, my dear fellow, there is something I'd like you to do for me. . . . Yes, I thought you would.' Then his voice cracked like a whip, 'This must be quick. Do you understand?'

'Whatever you say,' said the man on the other end hopelessly.

Chapter Twenty- two

When Mathilda got down to the kitchen for her breakfast, there was only Oliver. He was sitting over a saucer full of cigarette butts.

'Where's everybody?' she asked.

'In with Grandy.'

'Oh.' Mathilda got herself coffee from the stove. She hoped it was good and strong. She had awakened in a cold sweat. She wondered if she was coming down with something. She felt numb and confused and as if a lowering cloud hung over the world, something

black and terrifying, ominous, threatening, as if there was worse to come. Perhaps it was only that Althea was dead.

Oliver was lighting another cigarette. He glanced at her nervously as she sat down. 'The funeral is this afternoon,' he blurted out. 'They've released the body. Grandy says get it over with.'

Mathilda shivered. What could she say? Nothing to say. It was simply stupid to open your mouth and say, 'I'm sorry.' Oliver put out his cigarette and lit another. He didn't seem to know he was doing so.

“This accident stuff is all right for publication,” he blurted, 'but it wasn't any accident.'

'What do you mean, Oliver?' Tyl put out her hand and touched his. She did feel sorry for him. There must be a way to let him know it.

'Because she must have eaten them! Eaten them!'

'Eaten what?'

Those pills. By the handful.'

'The sleeping dope?'

'Yes, because, listen, Tyl, Doctor Madison knows damn well how she used to love to take a lot of junk. He fixed her up with some extra-mild ones. He told me so, when I worried about it. He knew she'd take too many, too often. He said the effect was mostly psy-

chological, anyhow. Tyl, for her to die, she must have eaten a whole bottle. So she must have wanted to die. Don't you see?'

'I can't believe—'

'You'd better believe it.'

'Oliver, you didn't have any stronger pills in there, did you?'

'Never touch the junk. No. Nothing.'

Mathilda shook her head. She could feel the cloud, that heavy depressing, shadowing bulk that seemed to exist in the back of he consciousness, ready to come down and swallow her up in despair She was afraid. She drank more coffee hastily.

'I can't stop going over that fight we had.' Oliver stared at he with reddened eyes. 'I can't stop.'

'You mustn't do that,' said Tyl. She, herself, felt that this was an unsupported statement. If he had asked why not, she couldn't have answered.

'I know,' he said. 'I know, but I can't stop. 'Burn tenderly.' What does that mean to you?'

'What does what mean?'

''Burn tenderly.''

'I don't know. I never heard such a thing.'

'Wouldn't you guess it was love stuff? Wouldn't you think it came out of some lousy poem? Or some fancy speech in the movies? 'My heart burns tenderly.'*

'Maybe' she said.

'Yeah.'

'What's the matter? Why are you worrying about that?'

Oliver put his head down, and for once his forelock fell over his eyes without the self-conscious boyishness with which he had been known to let it fall. 'Althea wouldn't talk that night. Night before last. Not at first. She just wouldn't talk to me at all. But then she

laughed and said that out loud. I don't think she meant to, but she said, 'Burn tenderly.' Tyl, I thought she and Francis must have been talking that way—you know, love stuff. Reading each other poems or something. I was mad. I told her what I thought. I said that proved it. She tried to tell me it was something some cook had said on the radio.'

'Cook?'

'Yeah. Do you believe it?'