The Seven of Calvary

by Anthony Boucher

  “I set it by the radio after dinner. It never loses more than a minute or so a week. And Mary Roberts told me that she and Cynthia had set the clock—also by radio—at ten-thirty that night.”

  “Good. Now here are the times:

  10:45 (approximately) Lamb goes to Lennox’s room.

  11:20 (exactly) Lamb leaves Lennox’s room. Lennox calls direct attention to clock, which Lamb corrects from his watch.

  11:28 (exactly) Dr. Schaedel asks Miss Wood his way and the time.

  11:30 (approximately) Dr. Schaedel leaves Miss Wood and is instantly killed. (This time is also checked by Kurt Ross’s narrative.)

  11:40 (exactly) Lennox reënters Lamb’s room. He calls attention to the time by commenting on his speed in typing.

  11:42 (approximately) Bruce enters Lamb’s room. Lennox is surprised that he is not at Miss Wood’s.

  11:45 (approximately) Kurt Ross enters Lamb’s room in a terrific state of nerves.”

  Dr. Ashwin handed the paper to Martin. “Is that roughly correct?”

  Martin nodded. “I know that leaves Paul the time between eleven-twenty and eleven-forty. That’s plenty of time to get to Cynthia’s and back again. But that would mean he’d have to know exactly when Alex would leave Cynthia’s. After all, lovers don’t say goodnight by clockwork.”

  “True. But not an insuperable objection.”

  “You think not? But this is. All that time, from eleven-twenty to eleven-forty, I could hear Paul typing away like the devil. The walls are thin, you know; there’s no doubt that the sound came from Paul’s room. And if you’re going to suggest that he had an accomplice come in and type for him—that’s too damned much. Whoever it was would realize what it was about as soon as a murder occurred during that exact time.”

  “I am not suggesting an accomplice, Mr. Lamb. I am simply suggesting that the alibi is not a perfect one. Again I have a theory, which I shall ask you later to substantiate for me. Meanwhile, you have all the facts upon which I have based my two theories. Indeed, your specialized interest in the theatre should predispose you to this second one.”

  Martin sat silent for a moment. “In short,” he said at last, “what you believe is this: That Paul Lennox sought to kill Alex Bruce for a motive which I cannot guess and by means of a faked alibi to which I am the deceived witness. And how about the Seven of Calvary? You think Paul made up the whole story?”

  “Yes. As a red herring. The symbol was probably left originally, as I suggested in our first discussion, to hint at some strange motive and at a different type of murderer. When Lennox learned who his victim really was, he invented this fantastic tale, the truth of which could not readily be checked.”

  “Then why didn’t he go to the police with it?”

  “He was far more subtle. If he seemed anxious to have it known, its truth might be doubted. Instead, he told it to a group of five people, enjoining them to secrecy after the police had broadcast a request for information. The chances were certainly in favor of the secret’s betrayal by at least one of those people.”

  “And you expect him still to carry out his original intention?”

  “Of course. And what can I do about it? I have no certain evidence with which to satisfy the police. I cannot even warn Mr. Bruce on such grounds of theoretical reasoning. All that I can do …”

  “Yes?”

  “All that I can do, Mr. Lamb, is to request you to keep an eye upon these two gentlemen and to see if you can discover anything further. Be with them even more than you ordinarily are.”

  “Keeping an eye on Paul will be easy enough for me this week. We’ll be at rehearsal together every night, and probably eat together too. I’ll be with him every evening from about six until we go to bed. And Alex is in the chem lab all afternoon.”

  Ashwin smiled. “I feel like Jehovah setting a guardian angel to watch over potential malefactors and victims. You make a curious angel, Mr. Lamb.”

  “I wonder if guardian angels drink Scotch?” Martin asked.

  Martin left Dr. Ashwin’s room a half-hour later in a state of sore bewilderment. Ashwin’s case against Paul as murderer was certainly plausible, even cogent; and Paul was surely far better cast as a subtle murderer than Kurt had been. Still Martin felt the same instinctive reaction against believing that he numbered a murderer among his intimates. It was idiotic and yet … Nonetheless he resolved to be most vigilant in his new rôle as guardian angel.

  As he reached the entrance to International House, he was relieved to see a sound and healthy Alex Bruce approaching him.

  “Hello. Been to Cynthia’s?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Alex answered somewhat abruptly.

  “A scene? You look it.”

  “A little. Partly your fault, Martin. We were fighting about Saturday night.”

  “I am sorry, Alex. It was stupid of me to—”

  “That’s all right. I don’t blame you for that balcony scene. Why shouldn’t you make love to Cynthia? You might as well join the crowd.”

  They entered the elevator and rode to their floor without another word. Martin felt too embarrassed to say anything; a guardian angel is not generally rebuked for his accidental amorousness.

  As Martin went to his room after a curt goodnight, he thought back over Ashwin’s new theory and found it good, if disquieting. Thus for the second time Martin found himself possessed of a relatively satisfactory explanation of Dr. Schaedel’s death; and this time he was not nearly so afflicted with instinctive qualms against his own belief.

  But this, of course, was before the second murder.

  Interlude

  Martin timed the sentence with which I have concluded the last chapter so that it came just as we descended from the streetcar.

  “I thought you were holding a second murder up your sleeve, Martin,” I observed. “Are we then to wait until enough characters have been killed and the list of suspects narrowed down to one?”

  “I don’t quite know whether that method would work here, Tony,” he answered me. “Wait and see. Besides, remember I’m not trying to tell a technically perfect story; all this really happened to me. Now let’s not say anything for a while; I’m out of breath after all that narration.”

  To be sure, I too was a little weary, and not sorry for a momentary pause. We walked along in silence, gazing at the fascinatingly crowded windows of Italian importers’ shops, and dodging occasionally to avoid the rapid career of a youthful fascist on skates.

  When we were comfortably settled in a booth at La Favorite and had ordered cocktails while we examined the menu, I asked, “Have you got your breath back yet?”

  “Tony, you’re positively avid!”

  “It’s simply natural curiosity—my first meeting with a Watson.” I did not bother to state that I was already considering the novelistic possibilities of Martin’s narrative.

  “And how do you like me as Watson?”

  I reflected judiciously. “Hmm … A little unconventional. It’s disconcerting to have a rather ponderous Holmes and a decidedly erratic Watson.”

  The drinks arrived, and we returned to our study of the menu. Our orders given, Martin resumed:

  “And Ashwin?”

  “A little too good to be true, if I hadn’t met him once when I was at Berkeley. Such a pity he wasn’t born in the eighteenth century. You expect him to include a ‘sir’ in every sentence.”

  Martin looked up quizzically. “Are you laying any wagers on the murderer?”

  “I don’t trust you, Martin.”

  “Now, now, Tony. I’m being perfectly fair. I’m telling you everything—everything, that is, that Ashwin and I knew. I don’t think I’m even using much false emphasis. Now, who’s the murderer?”

  I shook my head. “I have such a weakness for the formula of the least suspected person—short of detectives, doctors, and butlers, who are beyond the pale—and I don’t see how you can use it here. There isn’t any unsuspected person save you and Ashwin. Of course, Kurt and
Paul are innocent; you’ve laid so much stress on them. Then there’s Alex … Dr. Leshin. … Martin, if the murderer turns out to be anyone like Worthing or Boritsin, I’ll make you pay for dinner even though you are my guest.”

  “I told you I was playing fair,” said Martin.

  The waiter brought the hors d’œuvres and a steaming tureen of soup, and stood in expectancy. Martin caught the meaning of his attitude and looked at me.

  “Should we?” he asked.

  “Should we what?”

  “Order wine after all our beer?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. I never can remember the technicalities of precedence.

  “Bier auf Wein

  Ist nicht fein …” Martin was murmuring.

  “Wein auf Bier

  Rat’ ich Dir … A bottle of Chablis, waiter.—It’s the only way to remember,” he added turning to me.

  When the wine had been brought and poured, I lifted my glass. “To the Unknown Murderer!” I declaimed. After the toast was drunk, “Now go on, Martin,” I said. “I should like to know whom I was toasting.”

  “Excellent soup,” Martin remarked irrelevantly. “Well … that was on Monday. Nothing particular happened after that until dress rehearsal.…”

  CHAPTER VII

  Strangulation Scene

  Dress rehearsal was scheduled for Thursday evening, which meant that Martin calmly cut all of his Thursday classes and spent the entire day in Wheeler Auditorium with Drexel. There were last-minute alterations in the sets, questions as to the proper shades of grease-paint for different characters, minor problems of costuming and hand-props; and in all these matters Drexel wished his decision to bear the authoritative cachet of the translator. Martin found this attitude flattering but wearisome, and breathed intense relief when Drexel finally called it a day at four o’clock.

  This preoccupation with details had caused Martin quite to neglect his post as guardian angel; but he was far too weary to feel any pangs of conscience. As he came out of the auditorium, however, he found himself confronted with another problem which he had been neglecting for Don Juan Returns. On the sunlit stone steps sat Mona Morales.

  She was alone, and studying intently. She was not aware of Martin’s presence until he stood beside her and spoke her name. Then she stood up, a trifle awkwardly, and looked disconcerted for the first time in Martin’s knowledge of her. There followed a pause which threatened to be of indefinite length. Martin sought for the perfect phrase which would put everything right again. It was not to be found, but fortunately it was not needed. Suddenly Mona smiled and extended her hand.

  “It’s nice to see you again, Martin,” she said.

  Martin took her hand gratefully. That smile had sufficed to set the times perfectly in joint again. “I’ve been working with Drexel all day,” he said, “and I’m half dead. Won’t you have tea with me? Sorry I can’t offer anything more stimulating near campus.”

  “I’d love to. Do you like the Black Sheep?”

  “Very much.” They started off, and stopped in sudden embarrassment. Martin reluctantly freed her hand, which had remained so naturally in his.

  The tea was good, and so were the cinnamon rolls which Martin had ordered in preference to cinnamon toast. “No restaurant,” he expounded in a manner which he noticed with surprise was almost Ashwinian, “no restaurant knows how to make cinnamon toast. The secret is to use a broiling rack, not a toaster, and to toast only one side of the bread before spreading the butter, sugar, and cinnamon. That gives you the perfect glaze. It’s my own invention.…” he added in a faltering echo of the White Knight. His pontifical manner was rapidly fading before the steady, cool gaze of Mona. He looked down at the cinnamon rolls with an intentness which even the admirable presence of pecans did not justify.

  Mona spoke. Her voice was as cool and steady as her gaze. “I know what you want to say, Martin, and that you seek some way that you may come to it. Do not say it, Martin. It is no need.”

  Martin looked up in surprise. “I don’t know.…”

  “Yes, you do. You wish to say, ‘Mona, I was a fool. Please forgive me,’ or something as silly as that. Why should one forgive people? If one likes them not, why to bother? And if one does like them … it is no need.”

  Martin was at a loss for words—a rare state indeed for him. He finished a cinnamon roll, took a gulp of tea which was much hotter than he had expected, and produced his cigarettes, offering one to Mona. “You’re very kind,” he said.

  “Thank you. That is, for the cigarette—not for the compliment. I am not kind, Martin; I am sensible. I like you, and I tell you so to keep you from worry. Thank you,” she said again as he offered her a match-flame. “I admit that I was a little … irritated. Perhaps if I had seen you Sunday morning, I should not have spoken as now I speak. That is why I avoided you. I knew that I too can be silly—oh, very silly. Now I am not.”

  Martin drank his tea in silence. He was intensely grateful for having been spared an apologetic scene, and he was unable to express his gratitude.

  “Besides,” Mona continued with a light smile, “I have not forgotten the balcony. No, no,” she added quickly as Martin looked up. “I do not mean that as perhaps it sounds. I mean—you stopped when I told you. That does not always happen. I remember two months ago—it was a great unpleasantness, Martin, a young man who would not stop …” Her voice trailed off. “I speak too much, Martin,” she resumed. “That is a long story and not a nice one. You shall not hear it until you know me much better.”

  “Then assuredly I shall hear it,” Martin said with a determination which surprised himself.

  Tea did not keep Martin from eating a hearty dinner. He knew that he had a strenuous evening before him, and he resolved to fortify himself as best he could. But his concentration on food made him a little late, and he was hurrying through the Great Hall as Alex called to him.

  “Why the terrific rush, Martin?”

  “It’s almost quarter of, and I’ve got to be in costume and make-up by seven. Not that we’ll start on time of course. Hello, Cyn,” he added a little shortly.

  “I do wish you luck with the play, Martin,” Cynthia said. “I’m terribly sorry I shan’t be able to see it. I’m dreadfully loaded with engagements this weekend.”

  “So am I,” Alex added. “That is, not engagements exactly, but a few social appointments with test-tubes and retorts. What we were wondering was—do you think you could sneak us in to the dress-rehearsal?”

  “I don’t see why not. Drexel may give you hell and throw you out, and he may be glad to have some sort of an audience to give reactions. Nothing guaranteed. As a matter of fact, I asked Mona to drop in tonight; she can’t make the performance either.”

  “And you want your little Latin to see your great triumph?” Cynthia smiled maliciously.

  “Yes,” Martin answered simply. It was easier than an exchange of sarcasm. “You can just slip in at the back of the auditorium. We’ll probably get things started some time between seven-thirty and eight.” With a nod of farewell, he set off for the auditorium.

  Martin fingered his beard doubtfully. The make-up mirror assured him that it was convincing, but it felt so damned artificial. With the scissors he snipped a bit of hair from one side and regarded it again. As Paul Lennox came into the little classroom which had been forced into theatrical service, he looked up. “Do you think that’s any better?” he asked.

  “I couldn’t tell.” Paul sank into a one-armed class chair and produced a briar pipe from somewhere in his sixteenth-century doublet. “You know, Martin,” he went on during the process of filling and lighting, “I think I’ve got stage fright. I’ve lectured before huge classes, I’ve read a paper before a learned association, and never a quiver. I know this play’s just fun, nothing that really matters—”

  “Thanks,” Martin interrupted.

  “I mean nothing that really matters so far as I’m concerned—my career and what not—and yet somehow I feel as though tonig
ht were the most important night in my life.”

  “Stage fright’s a good sign,” said Martin. “Only lousy actors are ever quite free from it.” He lit a cigarette after a last regretful glance at the reflection of his beard. “But if you’re jittery tonight, what will you be tomorrow with an audience out front?”

  “There’s enough of an audience tonight. People have kept dribbling in at the back of the auditorium. Drexel began to blow up, and then suddenly decided that their reactions might be valuable. I think he said it with capital letters.”

  They smoked in silence for a minute of so. “By the way,” Martin said, “you were swell in the death scene last night. Keep it up.”

  “Thanks.” Paul smiled quietly. “You’ve no idea how strange you look, Martin. The cigarette itself goes queerly enough with your costume and your beard, but when the tip of the cigarette is stained with lip-rouge …”

  Martin was glaring at the results of make-up when a head popped in at the door, called “Places!” and vanished. Paul rose leisurely and knocked the ashes out of his pipe. His hand was none too steady.

  “Well, good luck, Paul. I’ve got to the end of the first scene to enjoy my own private jitters. You’ll knock ’em dead with that first curtain.”

  Paul nodded a little dubiously and left. Martin had finished his cigarette and was again considering the beard question when a tap came on the door. “Come in,” he said.

  It was Mona. “I did not think I was supposed to come behind the stage,” she began. “But I do want to wish you luck. It has begun. The setting looks lovely. Paul is a little frightened.…” She paused.

  “Thank you, Mona,” Martin said, and pressed her hand.

  “¡Buena suerte, amigo!” she exclaimed, kissed him impulsively, and hurried away. For once it was the girl and not the man who carried off telltale traces of make-up.

  For the remainder of his off-stage wait, Martin forgot his beard, his rôle, his play, and his status as guardian angel; and thought only of Mona until the detached head appeared once more to call “Places for scene two!”