Speak of the Devil by Elisabeth Sanxay Holding

Author:Elisabeth Sanxay Holding
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: mystery, detective, crime, noir, sleuth
Publisher: Wildside Press LLC
Published: 2016-06-06T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER IX

Miss Peterson was seldom plagued by doubt or uncertainty. She had seen plenty of trouble and plenty of danger; but she had known almost always what she wanted to do, and meant to do. Now, however, she did not, and it upset her, so that she lay awake a good half hour.

I don’t know about don Carlos, she said to herself. I honestly don’t. I don’t know what his limits are. I don’t know what he has done, or what he’s likely to do. He certainly did not put all his cards on the table. He’d never do that. He’d always have an ace up his sleeve. But, to a certain extent, he did trust me.

Well, I don’t much like being trusted with illegal secrets. If I keep quiet about the possible bullet-hole, and about the dead man’s passport, I’m an accessory after the fact. And after what fact? The man is dead; and Mrs. Barley is seriously ill.

Don Carlos had the means and the opportunity for both of these killings. It’s easy to see what motive he could have had, too. He wants to save his precious hotel. The question is whether or not he’s capable of cold-blooded murder. And it’s a question I can’t answer.

Maybe I’m a fool, she thought, turning restlessly in her bed. Perhaps the only sensible thing to do is to go to Losee and tell him everything. Everything. All that I’ve seen, which isn’t much; and all that I’ve heard, which is plenty. Certainly that’s the sensible course and the consequences are none of my business.

But suppose don Carlos hasn’t done anything seriously wrong or criminal, and I help to ruin his hotel? I don’t much care to be a peccary. And suppose my truth-telling makes things much worse for Cecily?

Fernandez said the motive wasn’t love. Then what? Hate? Jealousy? What sort of hate could make a girl confess to a killing she hadn’t done? Because she didn’t kill that man. I’m certain of that. He was shot in the back. And it happened in Mr. Fernandez’s room. Fernandez doesn’t deny that there’s a bullet-hole in the wall.

The rain had ceased, and the breeze was sweet and steady; she could see stars in the sky. We were lucky, she thought. But the words echoed in her mind. Lucky? Not the poor little bald man. Not Mrs. Barley. Not Cecily. The storm had passed, but it had left a trail of wreckage.

Oh, go to sleep! she said to herself, angrily. And, after a time, she did.

* * * *

It was better in the morning with the sun up. The surf still ran high; standing at her window she saw the giant breakers smashing on the barrier reef, and, even broken, they came rolling up on the beach in a long indomitable tide. She rose, she put on a bathing suit and a terry robe, and went down on the sands. She went into the sea and had a swim. She was an excellent swimmer, but she kept close to the shore this morning, for this was unknown terrain.

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