I landed on them just in time, crashing into them, smashing them into the corner of the wall, sending her bullet, meant for the sorrel-haired man, into a step.
We weren’t standing up. I caught with both hands at the flash of her gun, missed, and had her by the waist. Close to my chin Fitzstephan’s lean fingers closed on her gun-hand wrist.
She twisted her body against my right arm. My right arm was still lame from our spill out of the Chrysler. It wouldn’t hold. Her thick body went up, turning over on me.
Gunfire roared in my ear, burnt my cheek.
The woman’s body went limp.
When O’Gar and Reddy pulled us apart she lay still. The second bullet had gone through her throat.
I went up to the laboratory. Gabrielle Leggett, with the doctor and Collinson kneeling beside her, was lying on the floor.
I told the doctor: “Better take a look at Mrs. Leggett. She’s on the stairs. Dead, I think, but you’d better take a look.”
The doctor went out. Collinson, chafing the unconscious girl’s hands, looked at me as if I were something there ought to be a law against, and said:
“I hope you’re satisfied with the way your work got done.”
“It got done,” I said.
VIII
But and If
Fitzstephan and I ate one of Mrs. Schindler’s good dinners that evening in her low-ceilinged basement, and drank her husband’s good beer. The novelist in Fitzstephan was busy trying to find what he called Mrs. Leggett’s psychological basis.
“The killing of her sister is plain enough, knowing her character as we now do,” he said, “and so are the killing of her husband, her attempt to ruin her niece’s life when she was exposed, and even her determination to kill herself on the stairs rather than be caught. But the quiet years in between—where do they fit in?”
“It’s Leggett’s murder that doesn’t fit in,” I argued. “The rest is all one piece. She wanted him. She killed her sister—or had her killed—in a way to tie him to her; but the law pulled them apart. There was nothing she could do about that, except wait and hope for the chance that always existed, that he would be freed some day. We don’t know of anything else she wanted then. Why shouldn’t she be quiet, holding Gabrielle as her hostage against the chance she hoped for, living comfortably enough, no doubt, on his money? When she heard of his escape, she came to America and set about finding him. When her detectives located him here she came to him. He was willing to marry her. She had what she wanted. Why should she be anything but quiet? She wasn’t a troublemaker for the fun of it—one of these people who act out of pure mischief. She was simply a woman who wanted what she wanted and was willing to go to any length to get it. Look how patiently, and for how many years, she hid her hatred from the girl. And her wants weren’t even very extravagant. You won’t find the key to her in any complicated derangements. She was simple as an animal, with an animal’s simple ignorance of right and wrong, dislike for being thwarted, and spitefulness when trapped.”
Fitzstephan drank beer and asked:
“You’d reduce the Dain curse, then, to a primitive strain in the blood?”
“To less than that, to words in an angry woman’s mouth.”
“It’s fellows like you that take all the color out of life.” He sighed behind cigarette smoke. “Doesn’t Gabrielle’s being made the tool of her mother’s murder convince you of the necessity—at least the poetic necessity—of the curse?”
“Not even if she was the tool, and that’s something I wouldn’t bet on. Apparently Leggett didn’t doubt it. He stuffed his letter with those ancient details to keep her covered up. But we’ve only got Mrs. Leggett’s word that he actually saw the child kill her mother. On the other hand, Mrs. Leggett said, in front of Gabrielle, that Gabrielle had been brought up to believe her father the murderer—so we can believe that. And it isn’t likely—though it’s possible—that he would have gone that far except to save her from knowledge of her own guilt. But, from that point on, one guess at the truth is about as good as another. Mrs. Leggett wanted him and she got him. Then why in hell did she kill him?”
“You jump around so,” Fitzstephan complained. “You answered that back in the laboratory. Why don’t you stick to your answer? You said she killed him because the letter sounded enough like a pre-suicide statement to pass, and she thought it and his death would ensure her safety.”
“That was good enough to say then,” I admitted; “but not now, in cold blood, with more facts to fit in. She had worked and waited for years to get him. He must have had some value to her.”
“But she didn’t love him, or there is no reason to suppose she did. He hadn’t that value to her. He was to her no more than a trophy of the hunt; and that’s a value not affected by death—one has the head embalmed and nailed on the wall.”
“Then why did she keep Upton away from him? Why did she kill Ruppert? Why should she have carried the load for him there? It was his danger. Why did she make it hers if he had no value to her? Why did she risk all that to keep him from learning that the past had come to life again?”
“I think I see what you’re getting at,” Fitzstephan said slowly. “You think—”
“Wait—here’s another thing. I talked to Leggett and his wife together a couple of times. Neither of them addressed a word to the other either time, though the woman did a lot of acting to make me think she would have told me something about her daughter’s disappearance if
