The Dishonest Murderer by Frances Lockridge Read Free Book Online

again, she said, “Come in, please.”
    Sergeant Blake came in. He dropped his hat on a chair. He did not remove his overcoat. It was damp, Freddie noticed. It was still snowing, then. The thought was meaningless, out of place.
    She went ahead of Sergeant Blake into the living room. Celia was already on her feet. Her hands were clenched; a handkerchief was clenched in one of them. Curtis Grainger was rising, to stand beside her. But he did not touch her. He let her stand alone, facing the tall, dark man in the damp overcoat, the man who looked at them with a troubled face.
    â€œMiss Kirkhill,” he said to Celia. “You are Miss Kirkhill? Senator Kirkhill’s daughter?”
    The girl nodded. She nodded quickly, so that he would go on quickly.
    â€œThere’s been an—accident,” he said. “I’ve been sent to ask you—”
    â€œFather!” the girl said. “An accident to Father?”
    â€œWe don’t know,” Sergeant Blake said. His voice was gentle. He was, Freddie thought—thought through a swirling of thoughts, in a kind of blackness through which thoughts swirled—trying to be reassuring. “That’s why I’ve been sent. We’ll have to ask you to—to look at—” He stopped.
    â€œHe’s dead!” Celia said. “Dad’s dead! ”
    Blake shook his head, quickly.
    â€œWe hope not,” he said. “That is, a man’s dead. It may not be—not be your father, Miss Kirkhill. We hope—”
    Now it was blackness which was swirling; swirling, narrowing, hemming Freddie in.
    â€œWinifred,” a voice said, beyond the blackness. “Winifred!” It was her father’s voice. She reached out for it with her mind, reached for its solidity in this swirling blackness. With a terrible effort, she forced the blackness back. She could see them again, see her father, moving toward her; see Blake turning his head toward her. It had been only seconds, then; only seconds of fighting the blackness.
    â€œI’m all right, Father,” she heard her voice saying. “All right.”
    It was Celia who fainted. Curtis Grainger caught her, held her in his arms, found a sofa to lay her on.
    Blake looked at Freddie. There was concern in his expressive face. There was also puzzlement.
    â€œI am going to marry Senator Kirkhill, Sergeant,” she said. She made her voice steady. She was conscious, as she spoke, how carefully—with what desperate care—she had chosen the tense. “I am—” But it was not true.
    â€œProbably this man isn’t the senator,” Sergeant Blake said. “You understand that, Mrs. Haven? You must—”
    â€œHope that,” Freddie said. “Yes, Sergeant.”
    Fay Burnley was bending over Celia, keeping the girl’s head down, rubbing her wrists, talking to her.
    â€œIt isn’t your father, honey,” she said. “Of course it isn’t. Of course it isn’t Bruce.”
    â€œThe girl can’t go, Sergeant,” the admiral said. He spoke with finality, with command. “You see that.”
    But Sergeant Blake shook his head.
    â€œI’m sorry,” he said. “Sooner or later, I’m afraid, she’ll have to, you know. If it should be the senator—well, she’s next of kin.”
    â€œNot now,” the admiral said. “We all knew Kirkhill. We’d all—know. I’ll go myself.”
    Sergeant Blake hesitated. He looked at the girl, motionless on the sofa. He reached a decision.
    â€œVery well,” he said. “The other can come later. If it’s necessary.” He looked at the admiral. “You would be sure?” he asked.
    â€œI’ll go,” Freddie said. Her father looked at her. “Yes, Dad,” she said. “I—I can’t just sit here. Just—wait. You and I, we’ll go.” She tried to smile. “Please, Dad.”
    The admiral