Figure Away

by Phoebe Atwood Taylor

  WHAT THE PRESS SAYS

  OF ASEY MAYO MYSTERIES

  “Grand light fiction . . . recommended for those who left off reading mysteries when Earl Derr Biggers died . . . characterizations even better and action faster.”

  —The New York Times.

  “By all means try this brand of gay arc grisly entertainment.”

  —New York Herald Tribune.

  “Without doubt one of the most amusing of the detectives now cluttering up our fiction.”

  —Boston Transcript.

  “Asey is pure Cape Cod native . . . far more entertaining than any other version from Lincoln to Bacheller and all the way back again.”

  —Cleveland Press.

  “Asey Mayo is delightful. He would light up the darkest murder story.”

  —Worcester Telegram.

  “Asey Mayo is the most fascinating character in mystery fiction since Charlie Chan.”

  —Washington Star.

  “Another Asey Mayo story is always welcome with its sure-fire combination of Cape Cod atmosphere, well-knit plot, excitement and comedy.”

  —Philadelphia Inquirer.

  “Asey Mayo has become a valued friend to all who follow the best that the mystery field offers.”

  —Boston Herald.

  As the tourists arrive on the Cape for the summer a series of odd events – fires, shots in the night, thefts – threatens to scare them off. The homespun detective is called in to save the day – and finds a corpse in Hell Hollow. With the aid of Cousin Syl and his wife, Asey outwits both the State Police and the murderer.

  Figure

  Away

  An Asey Mayo Mystery

  PHOEBE ATWOOD TAYLOR

  John Curley & Associates, Inc.

  South Yarmouth, Ma.

  Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

  Taylor, Phoebe Atwood, 1909–

  Figure away.

  Large print ed.

  1. Large type books. I. Title.

  [PZ3.T2177F1 1980] [PS3539.A9635] 813’ .52

  ISBN 0-893-0-259-1 80-10663

  Copyright © 1937, 1964 by Phoebe Atwood Taylor

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission.

  FOR KAY

  The island of Billingsgate has for many years rested beneath the waves of Cape Cod bay. No town of Billingsgate exists outside this book, no characters mentioned or described are other than purely imaginary.

  Chapter 1

  “You listen to me, Asey!” Between each word Weston Mayhew paused and banged the top of his desk. “You listen, Asey Mayo! This is important! You’ve got to—”

  The rest of his sentence dissolved into the vast miscellany of noises which for days had been enveloping the Town Hall of Billingsgate.

  Listening impartially to the sum total of din, Asey found it difficult to dissect the individual elements. But in a general way, it all began in front of the Hall’s viciously Colonial entrance, where a score of men pounded professionally at a nearly completed grandstand. It gained somewhat down in the Women’s Club Parlor, whose walls were gradually disappearing under miles of bunting and crepe paper and carpet tacks. Real volume came from the assembly hall, where the moans of vacuum cleaners and floor-waxing machines competed with the practice swings of Upjohn’s Merrymakers, hacking away at a popular tune. Everything came to a head outside the selectmen’s office. There the dauntless soprano, imported especially from Boston, rehearsed “Billingsgate Beautiful” with forty members of the Grange chorus.

  There were of course other noises, but Asey lacked the spirit to delve into them.

  “Will you stop making faces and covering up your ears, and listen!” Weston shouted. “You got to, see? You got—”

  Asey Mayo rose from the window seat, tilted his yachting cap to the back of his head, and grinned at his cousin.

  “I got to cover’em up, if that’s what you mean,” he said gently, during a sudden lull, “or split my ear drums to shreds, I never heard nothin’ like this hullabaloo. No wonder you’re rampin’ around like a wild man. Come off somewheres quiet, where you can start all over at the general b’ginnin’ of what’s ailin’ you. Come on,” he took Weston by the arm, “an’—”

  Weston drew back. “But I can’t! That’s just it. I can’t go off, Asey, don’t you see?”

  “Why not? You got the use of your legs, ain’t you?” Asey demanded. “Stop bein’ so temp’ramental, Weston. This rampin’ an’ roarin’ ain’t like you. Come on, now—”

  “I can’t.” Weston sat down at his desk. “I don’t dare. That’s why I locked the office door. They’re after me, the whole bunch. The less time there gets to be, the more they – why, they mobbed me so this morning, they tore my shirt! They all want—”

  The noises started up again.

  Asey winced as the soprano outside clambered to the high note in the fourth bar and clung there, while the disorganized choristers played vocal tag about her.

  “That song, that damn song!” The ordinarily undemonstrative Weston clutched at his forehead and proceeded to unburden himself in a series of shrill yelps, like a man bitten by a number of bees at once. “That cussed song! Banners! Ice cream! That radio guy – blah, blah, blah, Mr. Mayhew! Blah, blah, blah! What about the parade torches? And the flagpole? And the fireworks? And the judges. And the exposition. And who’s going to meet the governor, the fat hunk of gurry! Who’s – Asey, what’re you doing, Asey? You—”

  Ignoring Weston’s protests, Asey folded his pocket handkerchief lengthwise and forcibly bandaged his cousin’s head. When a member of his own family took to near-hysterics, something had to be done.

  “What’re you tying me up for?” Weston yelled. “What – don’t unlock that office door! Don’t – oh, you gone and done it, now! Now they’ll all—”

  The second the door opened, people began to surge in. Weston closed his eyes as the questions began to pop.

  “Wes, them banners ain’t “Weston, who’s got the programs? Jeff says you, and Brinley says—”

  “Mr. Mayhew,” the golden voice of Vincent Tripp arose above the others, “the microphones are not yet—”

  After glancing at Weston, Asey cleared his throat, pointed to the improvised bandage, and summonded up his best quarterdeck bellow. Vincent Tripp gasped in admiration as Upjohn’s Merrymakers, a floor away, halted abruptly.

  “Accident!” Asey roared. “Let us through, please! He’ll be back. Gangway – gangway, here!”

  He hauled Weston through the crowds of solicitous men, and anxious women who brandished smelling salts and spirits of ammonia. Passing by the Women’s Parlor, he caught sight of eighty-year-old Sara Leach, honorary aunt to half the town; her knowing wink heartened him to push through the corridor mobs and out to his car.

  Ten minutes later and fifteen miles from the Town Hall, Asey drew his long blue streamlined roadster to a stop, and pulled out his pipe.

  “Now, cousin,” he said, “what seems to be your difficulty?”

  “Old Home Week,” Weston said bitterly, twisting his tie back in place. “Old Home Week.”

  Asey sighed. Sometimes he wished that the Billingsgate branch of the family were not quite so obtuse. The town’s forthcoming celebration was not news. Not, at least, to anyone on the Cape who possessed even a rudimentary use of ears or eyes. Billingsgate Old Home Week posters were tacked on practically every scrub pine. Old Home Week news blared from radios and loud speaker trucks, and everyone had been talking about it constantly for at least eight months.

  “Uh-huh,” Asey said. “I know. I sort of heard about it. Three hundred years of Billingsgate, an’ how it grew. With frostin’, an’ early settlers – say, I hear you got ole Wins
low Billings washed an’ scrubbed an’ sobered up. I’d be kind of wary about displayin’ the last Billings. They’re a slow but hard rilin’ family.”

  “Brinley’s idea,” Weston said. “Asey, listen to me. I called in state cops. The town’s full of em. I got extra constables to handle traffic and crowds and all. I got extra fire wardens, and fire volunteers, and extra coast guards and life guards. I got the Boy Scouts and the Legion all lined up, and then I got a dozen good solid men I know, all armed and posted and ready. I s’pose,” he added thoughtfully, “I could get that destroyer up from P-town, if I pulled enough wires. I’d like—”

  “Specifically,” Asey inquired with a chuckle, “what are you expectin’, cousin? Fires, or riots, or just war?”

  “You see,” Weston went on seriously, “that fool Brinley – J. Arthur Brinley, he thought this Old Home Week up, and Uncle Jeff Leach and me, we thought it seemed a good idea. The three of us selectmen, we pushed it through. It was good, and it still is. Only it’s got too big. It’s got beyond us. That’s why I called you over, Asey. Mostly I’m mad, but I’m scared, too.” He hesitated. “I – I guess, I’m pretty scared.”

  Asey looked at his cousin, then took his pipe out of his mouth and transferred his attention to the bowl.

  When one of his family, his own family, confessed to being afraid of something, there was no sense to oh-ing and ah-ing and dallying around with useless questions. Weston Mayhew and the rest of the Billingsgate relatives might spell their name the old way, but they were none the less Mayos. They had all the physical hallmarks. Even sitting at a selectman’s desk for fifteen years hadn’t hurt Weston’s waistline. He was tall and lean like the rest. There were mental likenesses, too. The Mayos thought quickly and to the point. None of them were easily moved, but once moved, they went into action. To the best of Asey’s knowledge, there were few cowards in the lot, and Weston was not among them. His jugful of war medals and his record in France proved that.

  Yet here was Weston, ramping and yelling. Aroused, but dithering. And not just dithering, but admittedly afraid!

  “And the trouble,” Weston said plaintively, “is that I haven’t the time to be scared in. This Old Home Week’s got to go over with a bang. Now, Asey, your name means a lot. People know all about you, and the cases you’ve solved and detected and all, and the chances are that your just being here’ll stop this mess. It won’t take even a week, either. Just from tomorrow, Tuesday, until next Sunday night. I’ll pay you myself, and make you honorary chief of police, or something—”

  “Let’s get this straight,” Asey interrupted. “I got it as far’s your bein’ scared. N’en I kind of lost track. Where do I come in?”

  “As chief of police, or something,” Weston said, “you can handle everything. There!” he leaned back against the blue leather seat cushion. “Whew! Am I glad to get that settled! Now, hustle back to the Town Hall. Now this’s off my mind, I can cope with that bunch. I can cope with anything, as long as I know what it is I’m coping. Get along, Asey. I got fifty million things to do before tomorrow morning.”

  Asey laughed, and continued to laugh. “This isn’t funny!” Weston was highly indignant. “And don’t you think it is, either! It’s no joke!”

  “Maybe not, but what’s this all about, Wes? What’re you scared of? Why’m I supposed to turn into a police chief for? What is this, anyway?”

  “Didn’t you hear anything I said to you, back there in the office, when I explained?” Weston demanded.

  Asey shook his head. “I tried to tell you that the boiler factory had you licked from the start. Oh, I knew you was all het up. You got that much over.”

  “You mean, you didn’t hear about how they tried to set the Town Hall on fire? Or—”

  “Who tried to set the Town Hall on fire?”

  “I don’t know. Or about cutting the grandstands, so’s they’d smash down? Or about stealing the town keys, every last one of em? Or—”

  “Wes, don’t you think,” Asey began, and then broke off. A look at his cousin’s face convinced him that the man was entirely in earnest.

  “Or about the shotguns disappearing, or any of the rest?”

  “What,” Asey asked with great restraint, “what rest?”

  “About someone trying to kill me, and all?”

  “ ‘And all’?” Asey repeated. “You mean, there’s anything else to add to that?”

  “Well,” Weston said, “they’ve tried to get the other two selectmen. Brinley and Uncle Jeff. Only those two are too dumb to catch on. There. There’s the whole story. You can take care of it. It’ll be a cinch for you. Now, hustle this roadster back off to town.”

  “You’re quite sure,” Asey made no attempt to veil the irony in his voice, “you’re quite sure that’s all there is, are you, Wes?”

  “It’s all I know, anyway. Start up, Asey. I got to get things going. While I’m busy, you just fix up this mess.”

  “Wouldn’t want me to throw in a solution of the farm problem, would you?” Asey drawled. “Or the labor problem? Or the fiscal problem, or decentral’zation, or somethin’? Wes, be sensible! If one tenth of what you said is true, you need help, an’ you need p’fessional help, an’ quick. Call in the state cops.”

  “And get this into the papers?” Weston’s eyes narrowed. “Let everyone know? Huh! Asey, what I told you is true. And what’s more, you’re going to settle the whole business yourself, see? Now you listen. We’re a town of around a thousand. We got more’n five thousand coming here to stay for the whole week. We got thousands more tourists coming by the day. We’re going to be paid by Philbrick’s for broadcasting every day. Quaint old-time town, see?”

  “I see, but—”

  “And we’re going to be a quaint oldtime town, see? Nothing’s going to spoil it! We’re going to make enough out of this coming week to pay up all the town debts, and have a surplus left big enough to pay up roads, and the Town Hall, and the new wharf, and everything. No more relief and unemployment problems for us, see? We’re going to wipe out the red ink and start out fresh, and—”

  “But Weston, you—”

  “And furthermore,” Weston’s fist was pounding the car door, “furthermore, we’ve gone and spent so much that if this doesn’t go over, we’re licked for good! Whatever’s going on has got to be stopped, quiet and quick. Nothing’s going to keep this Old Home Week from being a success! And whatever’s trying to, you got to settle it! See?”

  “I got the point,” Asey told him, “about five minutes ago. In a nutshell, the fair name of Billingsgate’s got to shine till the coffers get filled. It’s a patriotic point, cousin, an’ well taken. Half a column of sabotage tidin’s, an’ pop goes the budget. Only I ain’t—”

  “I never,” Weston spoke deliberately, “put any stock in all the chatter about your always being willing to solve cases for rich summer folks, but nobody else. Of course, as a matter of fact, all the problems you took on have been for rich people. I suppose knowing the Porters so well, and all their rich friends, and helping Bill Porter with these cars, you’ve kind of lost touch with the Cape. I hear you get thousands and thousands of dollars, just finding lost cats and things, and of course I see where you wouldn’t be interested in helping out here, for, say, fifty dollars the week. I got some bonus bonds,” he added thoughtfully, “and I suppose I could always mortgage the house. It’s never been mortgaged in all the two hundred years we had it, but—”

  “Now see here, Wes,” Asey’s tone made Weston feel that perhaps he had gone a little too far. “I don’t mind your layin’ it on with a trowel, but I do r’sent your bringin’ in a steam shovel! You’re usin’ good Cape tactics – family tactics, ’cause I know’em. But you’re headin’ the wrong way—”

  “I just wanted to—”

  “I know. But first off, you know right well the only reason I never took on anything for the folks around here is that they don’t get themselves into trouble like summer people an’ city people always do. No one h
ereabouts ever asked me for help, except like for fixin’ cars, or boats, or pumps, or houses, or such. An’ you know I never took a cent for helpin’ anyone in all my life. I don’t need money. I got all I want. The only thing I’m tryin’ to bring out is this, that if things is as serious as you say, you don’t want me. You want real help. You got to put your Week across, an’ you can’t risk any slips. But if you explain things to the p’lice, they’ll keep mum. I’d be glad to help, but—”

  “You will?” Weston said happily. “Then you’ll settle things? You won’t need the cops. Not you, Asey. All you got to do is to see that nothing bad gets out, or happens, until next Sunday. You will, won’t you?”

  Asey hesitated. He had visions of all the family landing on him if he didn’t, and landing with both feet.

  “Well,” he said at last, “I’ll see what I can do. But mind you, if I get bogged with your mal’factors, or tourists, an’ microphones, an’ if your bonanza dries up on you, don’t you go to blame me!”

  “I won’t, I won’t!” Weston said. “You can have anything or anyone you want to help, but it mustn’t get into the papers. Nothing must get into the papers, that is,” he amended, “but good things.”

  “Huh. An’ furthermore,” Asey said, “if I need p’lice help, I’ll call for it. And—”

  “No, you won’t! You can do it all “If I do, I will! Get that, cousin? It’s the chance you’re takin’. It’s your r’sponsibility. I’ll see what I can see, but if it’s somethin’ serious that sticks its head out, well, from then on, I do as I see fit. Golly!” he stopped short and whistled. “What’s the matter?”

  “Bluefish,” Asey said. “Syl said this morning they was runnin’ lickety split out in the bay. We was goin’ to take my big boat an’ spend the week out there. Oh, well—”