She Walks Alone

by Helen McCloy

Genres: Mystery; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

A woman dies by violence aboard the Santa Cristina. A radio flash from the West Indies brings word of an apparently related death. A man's body turns up, and in his hand is a suicide note written in one woman's handwriting but signed with another woman's name.

But what part does the jar of blood play - and why is everyone so interested in the contents of a certain package wrapped in cherub-bedecked paper? That's the puzzle Captain Urizar has to solve in a case with a startling showdown.

Release date: October 14, 2014

Publisher: Orion Publishing Group

Print pages: 256

Sample

THE FOLOWING PAGES are to be read only in the event of my death by violence. . . .

The words were typewritten on a single sheet of paper, the first of eighty-one pages. The paper was white, a lightweight bond, about sixteen pounds to the ream, the usual typewriting size.
The script had been folded once. There was a crease across the center of each page. The last page was streaked with dust on the outside, as if it had been thrust into a narrow, grimy place. The
second page followed the form of a letter, in its beginning. . . .

S. S. SANTA CRISTINA

At Sea

To the Commissioner of Police

Puerta Vieja, Santa Teresa

Sir:

Someone is planning to murder me. I don’t know who it is. I have no evidence. Nothing that any ship’s officer would listen to now, while there is still time to save me.

Yet, in my bones, I know that before this ship touches its next port—Puerta Vieja—I may be dead. Another “accident.” Like Rupert’s. And the snake business.

There’s nothing I can do but this one thing—write down my suspicions and put the script in the mailbag so it will reach you when we touch port, whether I am alive or dead.
That’s one thing that might stop the murderer at the last moment—if I got a chance to tell him before he killed me. One thing he can’t have included in his plan—or her plan.
For no one on board knows anything about this script, except myself. Not even Tony.

But I don’t want you to read this if I’m still alive when we reach Puerta Vieja. That would mean I was wrong about the whole thing. And this script would only make trouble for
innocent people.

How shall I begin? It’s hard to be concise, or even coherent, when you’re frightened. Was there a beginning? A marginal moment when I could have turned back, before it was too late?
If so, I missed it.

The first thing I noticed was an oddly disturbing incident that last day of my visit to the Lords’. An incident that left me feeling as if my familiar angle of vision had shifted suddenly
to an unfamiliar plane. Like a scene in a movie shot from some queer, oblique camera angle. You know how that makes an audience restive? When a scene is so foreshortened the normal looks abnormal?
It was like that, only psychological. It made me uneasy—but no more than uneasy. Fear came later.

I was in Rupert’s study that afternoon. He had stopped working there since his accident. I was answering letters that had accumulated during the past few weeks while I was loafing on the
beach with Amanda and Tony.

Even now I can see every detail of that cool, shady study, as if it were still before me. Drawn blinds, plunging the room into a grateful twilight. Fragile, old mahogany, dark against
silver-gray walls. A waxed floor without rugs, clean and cool. Sheffield candlesticks on the desk. And a crystal bowl of water with a spray of passion flowers. Vegetable insects, delicately
articulated, wings and antennae in subtle shades of mauve.

The French window, beside the desk, stood open. A lawn, bordered with box and flaming hibiscus, sloped down to the bone-white beach at the tip of the point. Foam fretted the waters of the inlet.
Beyond, was a vast floor of lapis blue—the Caribbean. The whole was enclosed in a hot flood of sunshine—sealed in a bubble of transparent gold. There was no sound but the scratching of
my pen. And a distant clicking of shears. Across the lawn, a gardener was clipping the box hedge.

The drooping brim of a battered straw hat hid his face. Even his figure was disguised by the looseness of his white shirt and trousers. All I could see of the man himself were muscular forearms
and large hands plying the heavy shears capably. His skin was a leathery brown. It might have been sunburn. It might have been that touch of Negro or Indian blood so common throughout the West
Indies. I suspected an Indian strain because his skin looked dry. Rupert Lord says that Indians have “lizard blood.” They don’t perspire as we do.

I can even remember what I was writing at that particular moment. . . . The hibiscus flower here is big as a calla lily and scarlet as a poppy. That shows what sun can do to a species. Our
hibiscus at home used to have tiny flowers of pale pink. Could the sun have a similar effect on people psychologically? Exaggerating the form and intensifying the color of personality? In this
climate, even Rupert and Amanda Lord seem a little distorted and more highly colored than I remember them when . . .

“Please, miss . . .”

My pen jerked to a stop and blotted the paper. I had not heard bare feet on spongy turf, but now, as I looked up, the gardener was standing just outside the open window.

He slid the long, wicked-looking shears into a loop that dangled from his leather belt. His hair, just visible under his hat brim at either temple, was dark and straight—more Indian than
Negro. His copper face was unlined, yet his eyes were mature. He glanced around the room as if to make sure we were alone. His gaze lingered for a moment on the books in the bookcase, then came
back to me. Not to my face, but to my hand, still holding the pen.

“Excuse me.” His voice was deep and rich—more Negro than Indian. “But I wonder if you could do something for me?”

“What is it?” I had no idea what was coming next.

From his hip pocket, he took a small sheet of paper, creased and soiled as if he had carried it for several days. “Would you mind writing a letter for me?”

“Of course not, but—why not write it yourself?”

Something changed behind his eyes. His voice remained steady. “I don’t know how to read or write.”

I knew there was a high rate of illiteracy in Quisqueya. That was only an abstraction. It was another thing to be confronted with a mature intelligence cut off from the whole world of printed
knowledge. I recovered my voice.

“What would you like me to write?”

“A letter to my wife. She’s in New York. She has a job there.”

“Will she be able to read it?”

That was a tactless question, but he was not offended. “Oh, yes. She went to school until she was twelve. Just tell her that I’m giving up my job here, so I can go to New
York.”

I wrote the date and the words: My dear wife. I groped for other words to follow. Whatever I wrote without knowing the woman would sound forced and artificial. I did the best I could.
I hope that you are well and happy in every way. I am giving up my job here so that I may join you in New York.

My handwriting sprawled. Already I was near the foot of his small sheet of paper. He took another sheet from his hip pocket.

“You might put the rest on this.” He eyed me gravely. “Will you please put it in just these words: I cannot stand our separation any longer. This seems to be the only way
out. I’m sorry if it causes trouble.”

I wrote as he dictated.

“Now just sign my name, please. Leslie Dawson.”

“Shan’t I send her your love?”

“Never mind that.” A trace of impatience. “She knows I love her.”

I wrote: You know I love you. Leslie Dawson. He couldn’t read what I had written. And I felt that I was doing him a good turn. She knows I love her . . . So many
marriages have been wrecked by that comfortable assumption!

He had provided himself with a stamped envelope. Now he laid it before me. “Her address?” I asked.

“Mrs. Leslie Dawson, 245 West 189th Street, New York.”

I addressed the envelope and returned it. He seemed grateful. “Thank you, miss. I hated to bother you. But when I saw you through this window, writing, it just came to me that you might
help me out. I’d kind’ve like to pay you something for doing this, if you’ll let me.”

Had he taken me for Rupert’s secretary—someone who made a living writing other people’s letters? Probably he’d never seen a typewriter. He would think all business
correspondence was carried on by hand.

I shook my head. “There’s no charge for such a short letter.”

“I’d feel better if you’d let me pay you something.”

“And I’d feel better if you didn’t!” I smiled.

He smiled back at me. “All right, miss. If you’d rather. And thank you again. You’ve been more help than you realize.”

He turned and crossed the lawn, disappearing into the shrubbery.

His last words lingered in my mind. You’ve been more help than you realize . . . How?

As I went on with my own letters, I missed the steady clicking of his shears. The hot stillness seemed too intense, almost oppressive, as if a storm were brewing beyond the cloudless horizon. I
was glad when I heard the quick tap of Amanda’s high heels.

“Haven’t you finished those letters yet?”

I turned in my chair. She was rearranging the spray of passion flowers, her sun-burnished hands and arms pale brown against the chalk-white of her sleeveless dress. Everything about her always
seems cool and firm—her level voice, her trim figure, her smooth, ash-blond hair. Her scarlet mouth is the only touch of warmth in her appearance. And that is paint.

“All finished.” I swept the envelopes into a pile and rose. “Give me a minute to say good-by to Rupert and I’ll be ready to go.”

Amanda glanced at her wrist watch with the same air of precision she used to have as Rupert’s secretary before their marriage. “Say two minutes. It’ll take at least that long
for one of the men to bring the car up from the garage.”

Since his accident, Rupert has occupied a ground floor bedroom. The traction splint on his leg accounted for the sulky look of his face that afternoon, swarthy against white pillows. The cut
above his left eyebrow had healed, leaving an angry red scar. It was a narrow escape. A fraction of an inch either way and the glancing blow might have killed or blinded him.

Rupert has an interesting face. It tapers from a broad, square forehead to a finely modeled jaw, like the shape of a violin case. The dark hair is flecked with gray, but the brown eyes under the
black brows are always quick with light and motion. His mouth is out of proportion to his delicate jaw—a wide, full-lipped mouth that looks obstinate and morbid. He is supposed to be
ruthless. At least he is so regarded by competitors since he organized his big electric power company, Western Enterprise, Incorporated. To me, he has always been charming. But then I am not one of
his competitors.

His nurse was not in the room at the moment. A pocket-size chessboard lay on the counterpane. Sooner than rest in idleness, he was working out some chess problem by himself. My bundle of letters
caught his eye.

“Don’t tell me you wrote all those this afternoon!”

“And one more.” I perched on the foot of the bed. “For your gardener.”

“John?” He proffered a cigarette box.

“No; Leslie.” I took a cigarette. “Leslie Dawson.”

Lighter in hand, he paused. “We have no gardener named Leslie Dawson.”

“Are you sure?” Perhaps it was a stupid question. Rupert looked as if he thought so. But there were so many dark-skinned, white-clad servants in this winter home of his that I never
could remember all their names and faces.

“Of course I’m sure.”

“But the man was here a moment ago.” My own voice faltered. “He was clipping the hedge. And he wanted me to write a letter for him—to his wife in New York.”

Rupert touched a flame to my cigarette, then lit his own. “Have you been sitting out in the sun without a hat?”

“Of course not.”

“Do you really think my servants get my guests to write letters for them? Why should they?”

“This man said he didn’t know how to read or write.”

“We have no one like that.” Rupert frowned. “And John wouldn’t hire anyone, even for a day, without consulting me. He knows I don’t like strangers about the
place.”

“Then who was it?” I described the man, and the whole incident.

Rupert moved a pawn on the board before he made any comment.

“It wasn’t John or either of the under-gardeners,” he said finally. “They’re all full-blooded Negroes. You couldn’t mistake them for anything else. It may be
that one of our gardeners clipped the hedge and some other man spoke to you afterward. Some farmer or farmhand who happened to be passing. You didn’t see the face of the man clipping the
hedge. You just assumed the man who spoke to you was the same man because they both carried shears. You wouldn’t see the gardener go or the other man come with your eyes on the letter you
were writing. And you say you didn’t hear footsteps, even when he was close to the open window.”

There was a shading of irritation in Rupert’s voice. All during my visit I had noticed that any rumor of trespassers provoked his highly charged temper. Even friendly visitors were rare at
the lonely house on the point. Young Tony Brooke was the only one who used to drop in regularly and he came to see Amanda rather than Rupert.

“What would a farmer be doing on your lawn?” I persisted.

“Strangers are not supposed to take a short cut across our grounds. But they will do it. . . . The offer to pay you was a most artistic touch.”

“Artistic?” The adjective jarred.

“Yes.” Rupert’s smile twisted sardonically. “It’s the sort of thing you wouldn’t think of if you were making up the whole story.”

That startled me. “You think I’m making this up?”

“I did think of it. Until you came to that bit about paying you. And the fancy first name—Leslie. You wouldn’t think of anything so unconvincing yourself. Only the genuine
article or a very accomplished actor would have added those touches to the role. In a British colony like this, half the Negroes and Indians have fancy names—Cyril, Reginald, Esmé. And
the bit about paying you is just what such a man would say. Sturdy independence and all that. Paternalism is on its way out—even in this forgotten corner of the world. Of course I’m
assuming the whole thing isn’t just a daydream. You didn’t doze—or did you? The sun can play queer tricks on eye and brain.”

I recalled that dazzle of transparent gold in which the man had seemed to appear and disappear so silently, so suddenly.

“Would sun affect the ear?” I objected. “Or the finger tips? I heard the man speak. I touched the notepaper he handed me.”

My indignation brought a curiously quizzical smile to Rupert’s face. “Always impetuous!”

I relaxed into a smile of my own. We are cousins and there has always been a strong bond of affection and understanding between us. Even his sudden marriage to Amanda made no real
difference.

The chiming of a French clock broke in upon that moment of warmth and friendliness.

My ship was sailing in an hour.

I started for the door, and Rupert called after me:

“You have that package I gave you?”

“In my suitcase. Sure you wouldn’t rather mail it after all?”

“Not after losing two important letters that I did mail! Am I putting you to a lot of trouble?”

“Not at all. I’m going to Washington anyway. Why shouldn’t I deliver your blueprints?”

“If it weren’t for this blasted leg . . .” He frowned at the splint. “You won’t forget? The package must be in that fellow’s hands by eight p. m. next
Friday—at the very latest.”

“Don’t worry,” I answered from the doorway. “The ship docks in New York at two p. m. Thursday. I have a reservation on the Pennsylvania that night. I’ll deliver
your precious documents in Washington the first thing Friday morning.”

“That’s a pretty close connection,” muttered Rupert. “Suppose the ship gets in a few hours late?”

“I’ll take another train if I have to sit up all night in a day coach.”

“Why won’t you take a plane?”

“I hate planes. I was airsick all the way down here. And I love sea voyages.”

“Even on an old tub like the Santa Cristina?” Rupert laughed. “She’s just a freighter with a few cabins for passengers. She was the only ship on this route
during the war and we used her when we couldn’t get plane reservations. But we didn’t like her, or her passengers.”

“Tony Brooke said she’d be all right.” I retorted. “He got the tickets for me. He’s sailing, too, you know.”

“Vacation in New York?”

“I suppose so. He can protect me from cardsharpers and con-men.”

Rupert laughed. “Tony wouldn’t know a crook if he caught one with a hand in his pocket.”

“At least he’ll be someone to talk to.”

“He will.” Rupert’s eyes twinkled. “At the bank they call him ‘Babbling Brooke.’”

Amanda drove me to town in her own car. In Quisqueya, “town” is that huddle of whitewashed shacks called Saint Andrew. Both streets and houses are hewn from friable coral-rock. In
the dry season there is a cloud of fine, white dust, like the inside of a flour mill. The crossing of Royal and Water Streets forms the “business section.” A yellow mist of mimosa
around the bank and a green mist of pepper tree around the post office keep it from looking too businesslike. A cockney policeman, his fair skin burned brick-red by the alien sun, stands at the
crossroads, directing traffic. Usually “traffic” consists of three bicycles and a lame dog, but on “boat day” all sorts of vehicles converge toward the pier at the foot of
Water Street.

Another car cut in front of us. Amanda tried to swerve around it. Our way was blocked by a mouse-colored donkey harnessed to a toy cart loaded with melons. He planted his forelegs wide apart,
laid back his ears, and rolled one white-rimmed eyeball in our direction. Amanda had to stop. She put one finger on the button of her horn and kept it there. The policeman was running toward us. I
looked around for some sign of the owner of the donkey.

We were opposite the post office. Glancing across the sidewalk, through an open window, I saw a segment of the shady interior. A bald clerk at the stamp wicket. A plump Negress in pink at the
letter slot. A man in dingy white writing on a telegraph form at an ink-spattered shelf.

His large brown hand held the pen capably as it raced across the paper, tracing whole words in almost one motion. He lifted his head. Perhaps it was the clamor of Amanda’s horn that drew
his glance toward the street. For a moment I looked directly into his eyes. Then our car lunged forward. The scene in the post office was wiped out like a moving picture flashing off the
screen.

But not before I had recognized the man as Leslie Dawson. And he was writing. Rapidly, fluently, with the ease of habit.

AMANDA SWUNG THE CAR AROUND A CORNER. The whole harbor spread before our eyes—two long green arms of shoreline embracing azure water dented with
little waves that danced and winked in the sunshine.

“Amanda . . .” I began. “Just now in the post office . . .”

A shrill blast from the ship’s whistle drowned my voice.

“We’ll have to hurry.” The car halted. Amanda wrenched the door open. “Boy!”

A Negro lad pounced on my two suitcases. We scrambled after him, through the tepid shade of an empty customs shed, into the scorching glare of the open pier.

Shouts came from a group of longshoremen as a cargo sling hoisted a large, heavy box. It was of wood, freshly painted a dark green. On one side a small opening was covered with a mesh of thick
wire. At that distance, I couldn’t see clearly through the mesh. But, as the box swayed on its way up to a gap in the ship’s side, something behind the mesh moved suddenly as a flicker
of flame.

“Your ticket!” cried Amanda. “And passport!”

My fingers fumbled. An officer beside the gangplank glanced at the papers perfunctorily, perhaps because he recognized Amanda.

The familiar ship’s smell of brine, tar, brass polish, and disinfectant welcomed us in a great wave on the promenade deck. A steward took my bags. I gave him the number of my cabin. I was
about to follow him below when Amanda cried, “Tony!”

I turned around. Tony Brooke was leaning against the deck rail, looking down at the pier. He raised a hand. Silver flashed in the sun. Six pairs of brown heels flew into the air. Six Negro boys
dived from the pier as one.

I have always felt about Tony the way I would feel about a younger brother or nephew. His parents and mine used to be neighbors in Westchester years ago. When I first met him I was nine years
old and he was a bald, blue-eyed baby in a perambulator. Now he looks exactly what he has become—an artless boy, amply provided with this world’s goods, just young enough to have
escaped combat service in our latest war. It was Rupert who had eased Tony into a beginner’s job at the Quisqueyan branch of an American bank when an undergraduate frolic put a sudden end to
Tony’s career at Princeton.

Banking responsibilities had made no apparent change in his easygoing temper, but Saint Andrew’s year-round summer climate had improved his tennis, while Saint Andrew’s ardent sun
had bleached his hair hemp-white and burned his snub nose cherry-red.

“What are you doing?” asked Amanda.

“Having fun.” Tony grinned at both of us.

In the clear green shallows between ship and pier the Negro boys were swimming under water, naked except for the breechclout the French designate so coyly as a cache-sexe. Down there on
the white sand, two converged. There was a brief tussle. One rose triumphant, cleaving the water with something bright clenched between his teeth. He made for the pier in long, effortless
strokes.

“A cruiser tourist’s idea of fun.” Amanda managed to combine the winter resident’s contempt for “tourists” with the visiting American’s distaste for
“natives.” “Suppose the engine were to start and the propeller—”

“It won’t start till everyone’s on board.” Again Tony raised his hand and metal glittered in the sun. This time the coin spun in too wide an arc and fell with a ring on
the coral-rock pier.

Three boys raced for it. The smallest got there first. The others overtook him instantly. A brown fist lashed out. The small boy went down, a trickle of blood at one corner of his mouth. A
bigger boy snatched the coin.

“Stop!” shouted Tony indignantly. “The little fellow got there first!”

The boys did not seem to hear him. They were locked in a clinch, kicking, biting, clawing, as if their lives depended on it.

“Stop!” Tony shouted again. “I’ll give you another shilling to stop!”

The fight ended. All six boys turned toward Tony. He tossed another coin onto the pier. The biggest boy leaped into the air to catch it and missed. He went down on all fours, groveling in the
white coral dust until he found it. The others were edging toward him. He rose and turned on them with a snarl, lifting his upper lip to show his canine teeth, like an animal. The others recoiled.
He took to his heels. The others pelted after him. All six disappeared around a . . .