Date for Murder by Louis Trimble Read Free Book Online

rope were uppermost. Leona reached down without comment and grasped them. Idell thrust her hands against Link’s belly. Leona pulled, and slowly, sluggishly, his tremendous weight lifted from the water and rolled over the lip of the pool and came to rest on the tiles. Water dripped soggily from his hair and body.
    Idell pulled herself over the edge and rolled away from him and lay there, gasping for breath, allowing strength to flow again into aching muscles. It was an effort to turn toward him.
    Leona’s voice helped her. “He’s quite naked,” she said. “I suppose we should cover him or something.”
    Idell realized for the first time that Link was nude. She had touched his flesh, carrying him, yet until now the fact had not struck her. She rose a strifle unsteadily.
    “I don’t know,” she said. “There might be a spark or something …” Artificial respiration kept thrusting itself into her mind. She knew it was foolish. He must have been in there some time. He was quite dead, she was sure. But the words persisted, and she knew she must try, satisfy herself. Then there would be no recriminations, no gossip, no accusations later.
    She went to him, stretched now on his back, his horribly contorted face staring upward at the harsh blue sky. With a shudder, she bent and turned him over and arranged his head so it lay on one arm and any water that was in him would drain through his mouth. She kneeled between his legs and forced her hands to place themselves in the right places along his ribs, forced herself to ride forward, pressing, and draw back. His flesh was icy cold, clammy. She felt she was going to be ill again.
    “The Schaeffer method, I believe?” Leona said with amusement.
    “Do something useful,” Idell snapped suddenly. “My God, don’t just stand there and—” She broke off, her strength gone. She rose unsteadily. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m all shot to pieces.”
    “I’ll get a drink,” Leona said. “You need it.”
    Idell watched her move lithely across the patio and into the living room. She turned again to the body. No water had come from his mouth. She dropped to one knee to make sure. There should be water, she found herself thinking. There must be some water. A man doesn’t drown without getting water inside him somewhere. And she had done it right. She knew she had done it automatically and quite correctly.
    Her face was close to his horribly contorted countenance. Suddenly she drew in her breath and straightened. For the first time the true horror of the situation struck her, and she drew back. Once more the strength went from her legs, and she found a chair just in time. She lay there, her head back, her arms dangling loosely at her sides, but her eyes fixed in staring horror at Link’s body. That faint, bitter smell had told her the truth. The real truth!
    He had not drowned; he had been poisoned. Cyanide poisoning, she knew with irrevocable sureness. The apparent appearance of strangulation should have told her that. She turned as Leona glided back, a bottle of whiskey and two glasses in her hands. She set them down on the umbrella-covered table beside Idell and poured two fingers into each glass.
    “Drink it,” she said almost sharply.
    Idell drank, and the warmth of the liquor felt good in her chilled stomach. She relaxed a trifle, knowing now her nerves would not run away from her, that she had a grip on herself. “Thank you,” she said. “I suppose we should—I mean, they cover the dead, don’t they?”
    “The police really prefer things left the way they were found,” Leona said.
    “The police!” For the first time Idell thought of them. More scandal, more front pages news about the Manders family. “Damn!” she said. She rose and turned Link over. For the first time she became aware of the long shallow scratches on his chest. She took her candy-striped towel and draped it so it covered him from chest to thigh. “That’s the best I can offer