The Girl with the Frightened Eyes

by Lawrence Lariar

  “Forget about it?” he roared. “What kind of a game is this you play?”

  “The Franklin business was just a routine—a fraud. I knew you people weren’t named Franklin. I knew you were Alice and Gregory Yukon right from scratch. But I wanted to play. So I called you Franklin for a starter. It warmed up the party, didn’t it?”

  Alice looked up at me from over her handkerchief. She didn’t smile at my little joke. Her brother wasn’t smiling either. He said, “Very humorous. Now that you have met us, what do you want?”

  “What I have to say concerns your sister. Paula Smith had a date with Alice and I came up here to explain why she can’t make it.”

  Alice Yukon stared at me. “Paula Smith had a date with me? But that was last—”

  He stepped over and grabbed her arm again. He said, “I warn you, Alice, that you should not talk to this fool. Tell him to go away!”

  “I’ll leave when I’ve had my say,” I said. “Evidently you people don’t read the newspapers up here. Maybe you don’t even listen to the radio, either, so it could be that I have some very interesting news for you.” I waited for their eyes. “It might interest both of you to know that one of your friends was murdered last night.”

  “Paula?” Alice Yukon barely breathed the word.

  I let them toy with their own confusion for a while. Gregory Yukon sat down and let his breath out in a great gasp. I saw his big hands tremble on the chair arm. “Murder? Our friend? Who was that?”

  “Lecotte. Pierre Lecotte.”

  I watched them take the news of Lecotte’s death and swallow it. It was a bitter pill for both of them. Alice Yukon’s hands went to her mouth in a reflex of terror. The big man dropped his jaw and I heard his breath sucked hard against his throat. They were both shocked to the shoes and showed it.

  Alice began to sob.

  I said, “Bad news, Alice?”

  Gregory put a hand on her shoulder, gently. “There, there, ma petite, you must not carry on.” He turned his big head my way and for the first time registered soft and sweet. “This Pierre Lecotte—he was a good friend of my sister. A very good friend, indeed. It is a shock, all of this. And the way a man like Pierre should die—the murder, ah, that is the horrible thing. That is what takes my breath away.”

  “You knew him well?”

  “We knew him well. A good friend of ours, this Lecotte.”

  “When did you see him last?”

  “That would be hard to say. Perhaps one month, perhaps two months ago. What would you say, Alice?”

  “Over a month ago, I’m sure. It was when we—”

  “I would say close to two months.” He looked up at me with a question in his eyes. “And why should we tell you all this information?”

  I shrugged that one off. “You can pull the clam act on me, Yukon; it won’t break my heart. I don’t give a hoot in hell who killed Pierre Lecotte, or why. I never knew the gent. Lecotte interests me for only one reason. It seems to me that anybody who knew Lecotte might have known Paula Smith. Do you follow me?”

  He stared at me, deadpan again. “We do not know anything about this Paula Smith person. Absolutely nothing.”

  “That’s too bad,” I said and started for the screen door. “You two have been perfectly charming company. I hope the police enjoy you as much as I did.”

  “The police?” Alice Yukon’s head came up and I saw the tears brightening her eyes. “Why would the police want to talk to us? We were here—we’ve been up here all summer. Why should you tell them—”

  “He has nothing to tell them, Alice,” said Gregory, softly.

  “Your brother is right,” I said. “Nobody will accuse you of murder, Miss Yukon. There is more to this case than simple murder. The police will come up here for the same reason I did. Maybe they, too, will be interested in finding Paula Smith.”

  “What is all this with Paula Smith?” Gregory asked.

  “Nobody knows. I don’t know. She’s disappeared!”

  “And you think we know where she is?”

  “I was fiddling with the idea.”

  “And that is all that interests you? You only want to know where this Paula Smith has hid?”

  “You’re getting warm now.”

  He walked away from me, his big hands clasped behind his back. He came back slowly, studying the floor. “And if I tell you that at one time we might have known where Paula Smith was located, but at this time we have lost track of her—would you believe me and leave us alone?”

  “Of course not. I’m not in the mood for swallowing a routine like that, Yukon, and you know it. This thing is much more serious than I can get you to realize. People who disappear are baffling problems—that’s why we have places like the Missing Persons Bureau.”

  “Pah!” He waved a hand at me. “Most of them come back.”

  “Maybe they do,” I said. “Others never come back. They’re not only missing—they’re erased. Do you follow me? They’re murdered!”

  CHAPTER 9

  Alice Yukon closed her eyes and began to cry again, and her body was racked with sorrow. She covered her face with both hands and leaned forward and let herself go in a paroxysm of unrestrained emotion.

  Gregory stood over her quietly. He put his hand on her shoulder. “You will please go inside, my dear. You must not let yourself go this way; it isn’t good.”

  He waited for her to get up and rush off the porch before he spoke. He sat down where she had sat and lit himself a cigar. After a silence he said, “My sister is a very emotional young woman.”

  I said, “I didn’t mean to shock her. But I wanted to find out just how much Paula Smith really meant to her. She broke down when I suggested that Paula Smith might have been murdered. Why?”

  He surveyed me through a cloud of smoke. He took his time with me, like an expert tailor estimating a lapel. “Her outburst has nothing to do with Paula Smith. The fact is that she is broken up only about Lecotte.”

  I laughed at him. “She doesn’t give a damn about Lecotte or she would have had her fit when I told her that he was killed last night.”

  “Lecotte was an old friend of hers,” continued Gregory, disregarding my interruption. “She has known him for a long time. He was good enough to give her an exhibition in his club—The Frog. Alice was very grateful for this exhibition—it helped her in her work because of the publicity. In this way, Lecotte meant a lot to her. She was shocked when she heard of his death, of course. But her grief reached its climax, perhaps, when she realized that Lecotte’s death meant the finish for her forthcoming exhibition of landscapes. She had been working for this exhibit all summer. She had assembled perhaps a dozen fine paintings. You can understand, then, that she broke down as soon as it came to her that her work was in vain. That is a woman for you—she will cry louder because of an exhibit than she will for a murder.”

  He was putting on a great show of honesty with his monologue. He used his hands freely while he talked and kept his voice well-oiled and smooth. He watched my face for a reaction.

  I gave him one. I laughed. “You’re working too hard, Yukon. But you’re not getting anywhere. Suppose I tell you that I believe your double talk about your sister and her emotions. Let’s go on from there. How about Paula Smith?”

  He gave a violent shrug. “Paula Smith is simply an old schoolmate. Alice met her in art school. That is all.”

  “She has seen Paula recently?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “Paula was up here last Saturday?”

  “There might have been such an arrangement,” said Gregory. “However, she never came.”

  “Has Paula ever been here?”

  “Once or twice. Last year.”

  I leaned against the railing. “Tell me about her.”

  “What can I tell you?”

  I said,
“You seem to enjoy the business of understanding a woman’s character, Yukon. Surely you knew Paula well enough to remember the highlights of her personality.”

  He laughed, briefly. “And if I were to tell you that I have only seen this Paula Smith perhaps a half dozen times—would you then be interested in my conclusions?”

  “Tell me about her. What does she look like?”

  “She is a pretty girl—a redhead.” He closed his eyes and toyed with his cigar. “A good figure. On the whole—a very attractive woman.”

  “Fine. How did she hit you emotionally?”

  “Paula Smith is not emotional. She is a well-balanced girl—sensible, mature and ambitious.”

  “Approachable?”

  He laughed again. “I cannot answer that. And I cannot understand why you ask it.”

  “I like to ask questions. I figure that I can reach some conclusion about Paula as soon as I get a better mental picture of her. So far I’ve got nothing. If Paula Smith is sensible, mature and ambitious, she can’t be the type of girl who would hide herself for any adolescent reason. Yet she has disappeared.”

  “It may be that she has gone off by herself to paint. Paula is an artist.”

  “Even an emotional artist would leave a forwarding address. There’s more to Paula’s departure than a painting trip, unless, perhaps, she’s gone off somewhere for a special type of landscape. Did she specialize in landscapes?”

  “She was versatile. She did landscapes well. She did portraits well.”

  “Did Lecotte ever show her work?”

  He gave me a look usually reserved for small children or dull adults. “How would I know that? I have told you that she was not my friend. I have been in his club a few times, yes. I have seen Alice’s exhibition there. I think perhaps Paula did have a show at Lecotte’s. Remember, I say perhaps.”

  “You mean that Paula was good enough to have had a show in The Frog?”

  “I am no art critic.”

  He was brushing me off skillfully now. There was a new pitch to his voice, a new oil that smelled bad. Now he was talking down to me, playing a little game he had set up for his own amusement.

  I said, “Thank you, Yukon. Maybe what you’ve told me will help. I want you to remember that I’m only trying to find Paula Smith. I’m not interested in Lecotte’s murderer. The police will get him soon enough.” I opened the porch door. “I’ll be staying at The Gables tonight. If you think of any information that might help me locate Paula, you can reach me there or in New York at the Danton Hotel. My name is Jeff Keye.”

  He shook my hand and his grip was soft and weak. I walked down the long path to the main road, feeling his eyes upon me. I knew that he would be staring at me until I was out of range. When I turned to the right and started up the concrete road I looked back, briefly, at the cottage. I was right. The bulky figure of Gregory Yukon was leaning on the porch railing, on both hands. His eyes were aimed straight down the path at me. His face had returned to normal. It was loaded with a deep and brooding evil.

  I went to The Gables and signed in for the night.

  I had a good dinner on the broad, enclosed veranda overlooking the small but colorful gardens. The veranda was deserted. I was out of season. Woodstock caters to the summer trade and hotels like The Gables do a brisk business from June to September. Nobody but traveling salesmen and foolish ex-soldiers stop there in the off seasons.

  The big room was quiet and I felt alone and cut off from everything but the landscape of the garden and my own tangled ideas. The solitude and the stillness rankled me. I had a feeling that I was wasting time in Woodstock. Alice and Gregory Yukon annoyed me. They were a new thread in the confusing pattern of clues that led everywhere but to Paula Smith. I felt that Gregory Yukon had bested me—had forced me to retreat when I should have held ground and continued to question him.

  Woodstock was a long way from home, a long way from Fifty-Fourth Street. I wanted contact with New York again. I needed an encouraging word from Hank MacAndrews.

  I went into the lobby and phoned him, and his personality came through over the wires.

  “Glad you called me, Jeff. Anything new on the Yukon angle?”

  I told him what had happened and he wasn’t impressed.

  He said, “I wish to hell I were a Homer Bull. This stuff is meat for the fat boy, but on me it looks lousy. You’ve got to have a head for this kind of routine.”

  “Where do you rent heads like that?”

  “They grow on you. I’ll ask Bull the next time I see him.”

  “Doesn’t he ever come home to work?”

  He laughed. “He’s working all the time. He’s out on his friendship sloop—the Free Lance, unfurling his mizzenmast and porting his helm, but always thinking of next month’s story.”

  I said, “Why don’t you get him and tell him about this thing? He might be interested. You’ve got a good angle, Hank. Send him a wire and tell him, you’re being tailed by Bellick. Tell him they may put you in jail. He’ll have to come home—he can’t live without you drawing Doctor Ohm.”

  “Maybe you’ve got something there. Only trouble is Bull won’t go near Trum anymore. Trum doesn’t like the fat boy too much—Bull always gets there too soon with too much … and always before Trum.”

  “The hell with Trum. Just get Bull back here and tell him about Paula Smith. He can’t be Homer Bull and not recognize the story in it.”

  I sold him the idea. He promised to wire Bull immediately.

  I said, “What happened to Bellick?”

  “Bellick is doing fine. Listen to this report from the goon. He followed Mrs. Preston all afternoon. She went shopping in a knit goods store and remained inside for ten minutes. Bellick deduces she was matching yarn. Then she lammed into the A&P grocery store. Bellick followed her in and got an itemized list of her purchases from the clerk. He’s smart, that Bellick.”

  “Uncanny. Mrs. Preston must be enjoying his company.”

  “The great Bellick is never observed. He followed her back home and waited until she came out. She went to two bars and had three Martinis. After that she bought a girdle, a hat and a bracelet.”

  “Where does she get her money?”

  “Maybe you’ve got something there. A boarding house madam shouldn’t have too much moola to throw around. Maybe Bellick isn’t so dumb, after all. Listen to this—” I heard the rustle of paper. “‘She bought two dresses after that—$14.98 for one of them, $26.98 for the other. Then she walked around the Village, window shopping,’ says Bellick.”

  “A veritable bloodhound.”

  “After window shopping, she stopped in at the Boucher galleries. Can you tie that? She pays real dough for her art, too, I’ll bet.”

  “Boucher? Isn’t that the art expert Wilkinson mentioned?”

  “Check.” His voice rose, enthusiastically. “You’re getting as smart as Bellick, Jeff. It could be that Mrs. Preston was buying more art for her collection.”

  “Originals? Where can she be getting all the dough?”

  “Bellick will find out. I’ll put him to work on it.”

  “Forget Bellick and get Bull.”

  “I’m going to wire him,” said Hank, “just as soon as I get through chewing the fat with a mastermind named Keye.”

  I left the hotel and wandered through the familiar main street of Woodstock. I walked for an hour along the quieter lanes; pondering the problem of Alice Yukon and getting nowhere.

  I took the main road toward Bearsville, passed the Apple Rock and continued until I arrived at the path leading down to the Yukon cottage. I stood there for a while, tossing around the idea of continuing my little debate with Gregory.

  When I turned down the path and came abreast of the first large tree the silence suddenly embraced me and the noise of a small breeze in the firs made my heart pound. It was then that I
noticed that there were no lights on in the front of the cottage and the roadster was gone.

  I skirted the house, making a wide circle so that I could view it from the rear. There were no lights. The cottage squatted in the darkness and the sight of it teased my imagination. Why, I pondered, should I enter the Yukon cottage? Certainly there could be no direct clue to Paula Smith on the inside. Or might there be one—some small fragment of direction—an old address—a note—a sketch?

  I leaned against a big tree for a long time playing the question and answer game with my brain. My meditations pulled me closer to the house. It might have been a sudden gust of wind that sent the shivers prickling my neck, or the sound of a car edging away up the dark road to Bearsville. Or it could have been the quick shock of an idea that forced my feet forward toward the front porch. It occurred to me that the Yukons might have been hiding Paula inside the cottage while I stood debating with Gregory on the porch. It hit me, too, that they might have been holding her there against her will. And added to this were the myriad other conclusions I had reached in less than a half hour of concentrated study of the cottage.

  I decided on a simple approach. I entered the screened porch, taking great care to make as much noise as possible. I crossed the porch and bent to look through the window into the living room. I rapped on the window several times and waited for an answering light to flash on.

  Nothing happened.

  The windows on the front of the cottage were well sealed, but there was an easy way inside through a rear door to the kitchen. I poked a hole in the screening and lifted the latch through a cracked pane on the kitchen door.

  The kitchen was large and well kept. There was a small kerosene lantern on the sink and I lit it and turned the wick low and walked through a small corridor into the living room. This was the usual type of Bohemian layout—a big bay window facing the road, an immense fireplace, pine paneled walls, a huge studio couch covered with a red felt throw. In the corner near the fireplace stood an easel and on the easel an unfinished landscape done in the flat tones and simple planes of the modern school. This must be Alice’s handiwork.