Margaret Millar - Fire Will Freeze

Mr. Grube opened his mouth and let out a feeble laugh. “Ha, ha, ha. You are one of these who joke!”

Isobel felt her face becoming warm. “Come on, Mr. Schultz. You might as well admit it.”

“I admit it!” Mr. Grube said with desperate gaiety. “The lesson. We proceed. How you joke, ha ha!”

He showed her how to fasten her skis.

“The heels must be free.”

“Heels free. Yes, Mr. Schultz.”

He looked at her sideways and edged away.

“The knees bent. Notice me.”

“The knees bent. Yes, Mr. Schultz.”

“Madame will please use my correct name, Grube,” he said earnestly. “I cannot concentrate when I am made mock of.”

He sounded so intense that Isobel looked across at him. His eyes were wide and completely bewildered.

She swallowed and said, “You know the girl who’s going to dance at the Lodge?”

“Girl? Dance?”

“You know, dance for the guests as in a night club. She said you helped her get her job.”

“Madame,” Mr. Grube said simply, “I am confused. We do not hire dancers. Our entertainment is all sporting. I know no such girl.”

“You must know her!” Isobel cried. “She knows you. You got her this job. Really, this has gone far enough!”

“It has,” Mr. Grube said. “My name is not Schultz.”

He was sweating now, and casting anguished glances back at the Lodge.

“Well,” Isobel said weakly. “Well, well.”

“You have had sufficient lesson?” Mr. Grube said hopefully. “You are tired? The sun is too strong for you, perhaps?”

“Yes,” Isobel said. “Take these silly things off my feet. I’ve got business to attend to.”

Mr. Grube moved with great agility. Isobel left him staring thoughtfully first at her skis which he held, and then at her back.

She went into the lobby and looked around. Joyce and Mr. Hunter were talking to the Thropples beside the desk. Joyce waved and Isobel came over to her. With unexpected friendliness, Joyce tucked her hand inside Isobel’s arm.

“Had your lesson?” she asked.

“Not exactly,” Isobel said. “I’m looking for Gracie. Has anyone seen her?”

“Don’t be in a hurry,” Joyce said, drawing her aside. “I’ve just been talking to Sergeant Mackay in Briaree. I rang him up as soon as the wires were fixed. He said that Crawford was shot resisting arrest and that Floraine died of heart failure .” She lowered her voice. “You’re very lucky. I was afraid they’d catch on to you.”

“What?” Isobel said blankly. “ What did you say?”

“Oh, I’m not going to tell anyone, naturally. But I was pretty sure right from the first. Sexual conflict. The perfect motive. You fought with her over Crawford, when you found out she was Crawford’s mistress. I heard you quarreling with her right after the cat was found.”

“You must be crazy,” Isobel said. “We were arguing about her putting the cat in the furnace! I never even knew she was Crawford’s...”

“Sh!” Joyce said. “That’s your story and it’s very wise to stick to it.” She gave Isobel a long narrow look. “You have strength of character, Miss Seton. I have decided to withdraw my objections to a rapprochement between Poppa and you.”

Isobel gazed at her wordlessly.

“I think it would be intensely interesting to have a woman like you for a stepmother, and I do believe you can handle Poppa. I’ve been worried about leaving him alone when the time comes when I myself shall seek a mate. Poppa needs a firm hand. And so I give him to you.”

With a gracious smile she went back to her father.

“Your key, Miss Seton?” said Monsieur Roche. “You wish the key?”

Isobel turned sharply. “No, thanks. Tell me, is Miss Morning still in her room?”

“Morning, Morning,” said Monsieur Roche. “Yes. Morning. Yes. Room two-ten.”

“Thank you.”

She took the elevator upstairs and walked slowly along the hall. Two sentences flashed like neon before her eyes:

Miss Rudd was let out after Floraine screamed.

Gracie let her out. She rapped on Gracie’s door, and a cheerful voice sang out, “Come on in!” Then Gracie herself opened the door. “Oh, it’s you. Well, come in. I’m doing my hair. What’s the matter with you?”

Isobel shut the door and leaned against it. She said, “I think you killed Floraine.”

Gracie’s comb clattered to the floor. She leaned over to pick it up. “That’s a funny thing to say,” she said warily.

“I was stupid not to have known it before. You let Miss Rudd out of her room.”

“Well, you knew that. I explained that. I felt sorry for...”

“I don’t want to hear any more of your preposterous lies. Why on earth did you tell me that about the skiing teacher? Didn’t you know that as soon as I found out the truth I’d begin to doubt all the rest of your stories?”

“They weren’t lies,” Gracie said sharply. “I’m not that dumb. Schultzie was fired since I heard from him.”

“And the dancing business?”

Gracie looked uncomfortable. “Well, I guess I sort of exaggerated that. I’m a dancer, all right, but I’ve been on my uppers for awhile and I came up here to be — to be a sort of hostess. A glorified waitress,” she added bitterly.

Isobel stared at her and thought, she’s more ashamed of that than she is of having killed Floraine.

“You did kill her, didn’t you?”

“Not exactly. It wasn’t my fault. It was an accident.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing.”

“You can’t do nothing. You killed her. You’re admitting it.”

“Not to anyone but you,” Gracie said. “And they can’t do anything to me, because it was an accident. She tried to kill me first.” She shrugged her shoulders fatalistically. “It was a case of her or me, so it was her. I pushed her over the balcony.”

“The balcony of her room,” Isobel said. “Why did you go there?”

Gracie came over and sat on the edge of the bed. “Listen, you never had to look out for yourself, did you?”

“You can make the excuses later.”

“They aren’t excuses,” Gracie said simply. “I’m telling you why I went to her room. I told you before that I knew she shot off the rifle and killed the cat just to get rid of us. And I figured if she wanted to get rid of us so badly she had a good reason. And then I figured if she had a good reason she’d be willing to pay to keep it quiet.”

“Blackmail,” Isobel said.

“Well, if you want to fuss around with words, call it blackmail. I didn’t call it anything. I needed money and I saw a chance to get it and I got to look out for myself. I knew there was something between Crawford and Floraine. You remember when she shot at us and Crawford made us all get down in the snow? But he stood up and waved his hat. He was signaling to her.

“And anyway I’d seen him before in a night club in Montreal and his name wasn’t Crawford or Rudd. Somebody pointed him out as a smooth crook. He was scattering money around to beat hell, but there was something about him I didn’t want a part of — he looked too dangerous.

“Well, anyway, there was Crawford carrying a gun and signaling to Floraine and I began to smell a plot. And then when Miss Rudd began to call him Harry, the rest of you thought she was crazy, but me, I wasn’t so sure. I watched him carefully and I saw he was scared to death of her. Then I saw that there’d been a lot of things removed from the house, like pictures and furniture, and Miss Rudd kept accusing Harry of stealing. So that clicked. I was sure he was Harry Rudd, and that he and Floraine were playing a smelly game between them.

“The crazy part of it is, I didn’t know what the game was till afterwards! I let on to Floraine that I knew and she thought I did. But I didn’t figure it out until Miss Rudd brought me the papers with Jeanneret’s picture in every one of them. Then the bus driver’s clothes that you found, and the ski wax and Floraine being so anxious to kick us out added up. Jeanneret was the driver. He went to the house and Floraine fitted him out with skis, food and clothing. Then he went on his way. But that didn’t work out on account of the blizzard.