The Cases of Susan Dare by Mignon G. Eberhart Read Free Book Online Page A

Dare—to fear. It was Caroline who was afraid.
    Then another woman stood in the doorway. Caroline, no doubt. A tall slender woman, a blonde who had faded into tremulous, wispy uncertainty. She did not speak. Her eyes were large and blue and feverish, and two bright pink spots fluttered in her thin cheeks, and her bare thin hands moved. Susan rose and went to her and took the two hands.
    “But you’re so young,” said Caroline. Disappointment throbbed in her voice.
    “I’m not really,” said Susan.
    “And so little—” breathed Caroline.
    “But that doesn’t matter at all,” said Susan, speaking slowly, as one does to a nervous child. There were voices in the hall, but she was mainly aware of Caroline.
    “No, I suppose not,” said Caroline, finally looking into Susan’s eyes. Terrified, Jim had said. Curious how right Jim managed to be.
    Caroline’s eyes sought into Susan’s, and she was about to speak when there was a rustle in the doorway. Caroline’s uncertain lips closed in a kind of gasp, and Jessica swept into the room.
    “But I must know what she’s afraid of,” thought Susan. “I must get her alone—away from Jessica.”
    “Take off your coat, Caroline,” said Jessica. “Don’t stand there. I see you’ve spoken to Susan Dare. Put away your hat and coat and then come down again.”
    “Yes, Jessica,” said Caroline. Her hands were moving again, and she looked away.
    “Go on,” said Jessica. Her voice was not sharp, it was merely undefeatable.
    “Yes, Jessica,” said Caroline.
    “Marie is reading,” said Jessica. “You needn’t speak to her now unless you wish to do so. You may take Susan Dare in to see her later.”
    “Yes, Jessica.”
    Caroline disappeared and in her place stood a man, and Susan was murmuring words of acknowledgment to Jessica’s economical introduction.
    David, too, was blond, and his eyes were darkly blue. He was slender and fairly tall; his mouth was fine and sensitive, and there was a look about his temples and around his eyes that was—Susan sought for the word and found it—wistful. He was young and strong and vibrant—the only young thing in the house—but he was not happy. Susan knew that at once. He said:
    “How do you do, Miss Dare?”
    “Don’t go upstairs yet, David,” said Jessica. Her voice was less harsh, she watched him avidly. “You ought to rest.”
    “Not now, Aunt Jessica. I’ll see you again, Miss Dare.”
    He walked away. “Aunt Marie all right?” he called from the stairway.
    “Perfectly,” said Jessica. Her voice was harsh again. “She’s reading—”
    Afterward Susan tried to remember whether she could actually hear David’s steps upon the padded stairs or whether she was only half consciously calculating the time it took to climb the stairs—the time it took, or might have taken to walk along the hall, to enter a room. She was sure that Jessica did not speak. She merely sat there.
    Why did Jessica become rigid and harsh again when David spoke of Marie? Why did—
    A loud, dreadful crash of sound forever shattered the silence in the house. It fell upon Susan and immersed her and shook the whole house and then receded in waves. Waves that left destruction and intolerable confusion.
    Susan realized dimly that she was on her feet and trying to move toward the stairway, and that Jessica’s mouth was gray, and that Jessica’s hands were clutching her.
    “Oh, my God—David—” said Jessica intelligibly, and pushed the woman away from her.
    She reached the stairway, Jessica beside her, and at the top of the stairs two figures were locked together and struggling in the upper hall.
    “Caroline,” screamed Jessica. “What are you doing? Where’s Marie—where—”
    “Let me go, Caroline!” David was pulling Caroline’s thin clutching arms from around him. “Let me go, I tell you. Something terrible has happened. You must—”
    Jessica brushed past them and then was at the door of Marie’s room.
    “ It’s Marie