Radio and television mirror (July-Dec 1948)

"I GIVE MY TROTH" charges. But Miss Joan was still in the hospital. And their friends Irma Cameron and Steve Skidmore were in prison — Mr. Skidmore, who had confessed to the murder, and Mrs. Cameron who was being held as a material witness, because she had shielded him. That left just old Lilly and Mr. Harry's mother to watch and worry and take care of Sammy and baby Hope at the farm. Once again, Lilly shook her head, muttering, and Sammy stirred in her arms. "What did you say, Lilly?" he wanted to know. "I said—" Lilly gave herself a little shake— "I said you're going straight into the bathtub and you ain't goin' to move until Lilly gets some turpentine and sees how she can clean up this xxiess — " "Lilly!" Mother Davis' voice sang out. "Yes'm— " Hastily, Lilly popped Sammy into the bathtub, started down the stairs. Mother Davis met her halfway. The older woman's face was white, radiant; she trembled with excitement. "Lilly, she's all right! She just talked to me herself! Her injury wasn't serious — it was mostly shock after being carried off by that awful Nobel man." "Not Miss Joan!" Lilly gasped. "Not my Miss Davis-honey! Oh, praise the Lord — " "And, Lilly, she's coming home! Dr. Wiggan's letting her go to her mother's house this afternoon, and tomorrow she'll be coming home to us!" "I can't believe it." Lilly crossed her hands on her breast, prayerfully. "Oh, Lord, thank You — things will be just what they used to be. We'll be goin' on picnics down by the brook, and we'll be goin' down the road to — " She stopped. She had almost said, "We'll be goin' down the road to Mrs. Cameron's farm." But they wouldn't, like as not. Her eyes met Mother Davis' eyes, and the two faces, the plump brown one and the lined white one, became grave. No, things wouldn't be the same, not with Joan's dearest friends paying for the grim tragedy that had taken place in the barn. That's what would hurt her most. She would never pass the Cameron's without feeling it. . . . "We'll have to do all we can to help her." said Mother Davis, as if they had exchanged their thoughts aloud. Lilly nodded. "I got to start cleaning," she said briskly. "If Miss Davis-honey's coming home tomorrow, I got to have everything just as perfect as it can be." In the Stanwood hospital, Joan returned to her room on Dr. Wiggan's arm. She was the healthiest looking patient he'd ever seen, the doctor thought; her cheeks were pink and her eyes were bright, fairly dancing with happiness. "Thank you, Dr. Wiggan," she was saying, "for letting me telephone. Thank you for taking such good care of me and for letting me go home. Thank you — " At the door of her room she stopped short. "Where's Harry? He was here just a minute ago — " A pretty little student nurse came up to them. "Oh, Dr. Wiggan, a policeman called Mr. Davis into that room where they've got Mr. Nobel — " And then Harry himself came down the corridor. Joan couldn't read his expression, except that it was tense with barely conM trolled excitement. "I called home, Harry," she said, "and told your mother the good news. And 62 Dr. Wiggan says that I can leave the minute you're ready to take me — " "Good," said Harry. "I've good news for you, too. Dr. Wiggan, I'd like to talk with her alone, if you don't mind. You'll hear all about it later." "Go ahead," the doctor smiled. "Only take it easy. Remember, this girl's had some shocks — " "This one will do her good," Harry promised. The doctor left, and Harry led Joan to the deep chair near the window, drew another chair up for himself. "Joan, dear, it's about Steve and Irma — " "Oh, Harry," said Joan bleakly. "I Mother Davis (Marian Barney). forgot about them in our own happiness. What are we going to do for them?" "Take them home," said Harry. "Take them home? How can we, when — when Steve — " "Steve didn't kill Betty, Joan." "Didn't kill her!" But she believed it instantly. If she had been asked, back in the terrible days when Harry had been on trial, if Steve had killed Betty Scofield, she would have answered yes. Reason would not have let her do otherwise. Steve had been on the scene at the time. Sick in body and mind, he had confused Betty Scofield with his dead wife, Betty, and when Betty had laughed at him, he had leaped at her . . . and had run to Irma Cameron, babbling madly that he had just killed his wife in Harry Davis' barn. But all the while — yes, all the while Joan had been begging Irma to surrender Steve, to bring him out of hiding and persuade him to give himself up — she had found it difficult in her heart to believe that Steve Skidmore could kill anyone. She had believed it at all only on the grounds that Steve was out of his mind and that his wife Betty had made his life a living hell. "Steve didn't kill her," she repeated. "Then who — " "Robert Nobel," said Harry, hating to mention the name. "That's what they called me out to tell me. He's just finished his confession." "But it's impossible," said Joan. "Steve said that he had — " "It's one of those things you hear of once in a lifetime," said Harry. "Robert Nobel had followed Betty to Beechwood because he felt she had come to me to squeal about his stolen-car racket. She'd been delivering his cars for him — that's how she happened to be picked up in one. He was hiding behind the barn when Steve struck her — she fell to the ground — and Nobel finished the job. Joan — " He put his hands on her shoulders, steadying her. She was trembling suddenly, and very pale. "He would have done the same to me," she whispered. "I know it now." "Darling, you've got to forget all that—" She shook her head blankly. "He would have, Harry. He killed his partner, you know — upstairs in that old house he used for an office. And I was right downstairs all the time — " "Darling, I do know," said Harry gently. "We found the man when wewere searching for you. And that's why Nobel confessed to killing Betty. He knew that they'd get him for the murder of his partner. Anyway, he's put away for good, now." Slowly Joan returned to the present, and the color came back to her cheeks. "Does Steve know?" she asked. "No, dear. He wasn't expected to live, you know." He went on quickly, "But the Lieutenant of Police spoke to the prison hospital just a few minutes ago, and there's a good chance that he'll get well." "He's got to," Joan breathed. "I'll say he has," Harry agreed, "because the authorities are going to let you tell him he's a free man — that is, if you want to." "If I want to! Oh, Harry, more than anything else. Nothing — now you're safe — would make me happier. Why are you looking at me like that?" For a moment he couldn't speak, couldn't put all he felt into words. He himself held nothing against Steve and Irma for the part they had played in tangling his life, but Joan was different. She had suffered more than anyone, and at a time when she was still weak and tired after Hope's birth. Besides, it was always easier to forgive an injury to oneself than an injury to a loved one. No, if it had been Joan who'd sat in prison while Steve refused to give himself up and Irma refused to reveal his whereabouts. . . . "Because," he said huskily, and took her hand and touched it to his lips, "even if you weren't my wife, even if I didn't love you so much I can't say it — I'd still think you were the most wonderful person in the world." There was a celebration at the Field's that night. It was a small celebration — just Mrs. Field and Joan's gay and lively younger sister, Sylvia, and Phil Stanley, who had accompanied Harry on the frantic search following Joan's kidnapping, and Harry and Joan — but it was a miracle to Joan. Moonlight flooded the terrace outside the dining room of the lovely old house on the Ridge; fragments of dance music drifted up from the country club down the road, the flowers and the silver and the linen, and Nettie stepping softly about, serving — all of these things were marvelous after the weeks of seeing Harry in prison, the torment of his trial, the ugliness of her own recent experience with Robert Nobel. She touched Harry's hand, her eyes glowing and blue as the mound of cornflowers on the center of the table. "You know," she said to all of them, "I'm so happy that I — I feel as though I'm going to explode." "Please don't," begged Phil, "you're much too attractive as you are."