Free The Glass Slipper by Mignon G. Eberhart

little from perfect teeth; in the sudden silence Rue could hear that and could hear the way Gross’s breathing seemed to stop short and then suck inward sharply. He turned quite gray and became instantly helpless, turning blank pale eyes to Alicia for direction.
    “What…” he wavered, and Alicia said quickly:
    “The lady is dead. She’s been murdered. In this room.”
    How Alicia must hate her, thought Rue swiftly. And how well, up to now, she had hidden that hatred. There was no time to think of that; not with Julie lying dead.
    Yet, if Alicia had been a dozen Alicias, Rue was still Mrs Hatterick.
    “Gross. Look at me.”
    “Y-yes, madam.” He did so with reluctance. Obviously he preferred to take orders from Alicia. Rue said stiffly:
    “Get Doctor Hatterick on the phone. He should be in the office now. I’ll talk to him.”
    He blinked, and she said sharply: “Gross, do you hear me?”
    “Yes. Yes, madam.”
    He took the telephone on the bed table. Both she and Alicia could hear in that quiet room the vibration of the office girl’s voice.
    “He’s not in, madam,” said Gross helplessly, looking over the ivory telephone at the little heap on the rug. “He’s not in —”
    “Ask where he can be found.”
    “She says try the hospital —”
    Rue had remembered Steven.
    “Very well. Do so. But first call Mr Steven.”
    “Yes, madam.” He put down the telephone quickly, with obvious relief, and vanished.
    “Steven?” said Alicia. “Why not the police?”
    Rug did not reply; she went to Julie again. It wasn’t possible Julie was really dead. She’d been excited, she told herself; frightened. She forced herself for a second time to bend over Julie.
    But there was nothing she could do.
    She was again conscious of Alicia’s bright, oddly triumphant eyes watching her. She must pull herself together, think clearly, make no mistakes. If they couldn’t find Brule, then she herself must act; not Alicia, not Steven. It had been a mistake to say they would call the police; there was no reason — no real reason — to believe that Julie had been murdered. First they must have a doctor; it would be his place to say why Julie had died. And if he said murder, then the police.
    Julie. Rapidly Rue went back to the years of their acquaintance. Julie never drank — yet she’d been drinking then. And Julie, inexperienced, would have been so easy to poison in that way because she wouldn’t have been able to distinguish the taste of the poison. A strong hypnotic, say, with no nausea.
    “Well,” said Alicia coolly, leaning against the back of the chair, “I thought you were going to call the police. Why don’t you do it?”
    Again Rue refused to reply to the taunt in Alicia’s voice; that suddenly unveiled enmity mattered, it seemed to Rue then, so little.
    And Steven Hendrie, taking three steps at a time, reached the top of the stairway and flung himself through the doorway.
    “Gross said —” began Steven and saw Julie and stopped as Gross had done. “Good God! Is she really — dead? What happened? Rue, tell me —”
    “We’ve got to have a doctor. If we can’t find Brule, then someone else,” said Rue.
    Alicia smiled the faintest, thinnest little smile and said: “Why not get Andy? He’ll say anything you want him to say. He did before.”
    Steven flashed a troubled look at Alicia. He was kneeling beside Rue, his face pale and his eyes two bright sharp pin points.
    “Andy,” he said, failing to perceive or at least to give attention to Alicia’s implication. “Certainly. If we can’t find Brule we’ll call Andy. Though if the girl is dead… Gross —”
    The butler was in the doorway. “I’ve already taken the liberty, sir,” he said. “Doctor Hatterick was not at the hospital. So I left word at the hospital and then telephoned for Doctor Crittenden. He’ll be here in a few moments. Is there — anything else?”
    “Wait,” said Steven. “You’re sure she’s dead.