“You heard Hugh speak of himself then, all concentrated on his great medical career. He was going to be another Semmelweiss, another Lister—and he’s wound up coining money in New York as a society doctor with a perfect bedside manner. That’s the way it’s been with all of us, except Lucas perhaps. We’re not what we told ourselves in 1915. But it was all terribly real then and terribly obsessing.”
“And what was your obsession?”
“Pictures, of course. I was with Triangle then, just beginning to get a start. They’d signed up Sir Herbert Beerbohm Tree and Constance Collier and all of a sudden it wasn’t a disgrace to be a film actress any more. I was all absorbed in the Future of the Industry and incidentally of me.
“Lucas, naturally, thought of nothing but making contacts and influencing profits. James was preoccupied with poetry; I remember he’d gone back to discover Hopkins and Emily Dickinson when most of us were raving about Joyce Kilmer. Catherine had nothing on her mind but the latest styles and being the belle of the season. And Horace … well, I think perhaps you understand Horace’s obsession by now. He’s spent all his life working furiously at being what Lucas, without any trouble at all, simply is. And he’s never quite made it.”
“It’s a wonder,” said Fergus, “that any of you noticed any of the others enough for there to be a wedding.”
“There should have been two,” said Stella Paris slowly.
“Two weddings?”
“Yes. We none of us liked the idea of a double wedding. Each couple seems to steal the other’s spotlight. But a week later Martha and Lucas were to have been married. That was what made it all even more awful. And now … oh, if I were Alys I wouldn’t stand for it!”
“Stand for what?”
“Lucas is marrying her a week from today. It’s … it would be the silver anniversary of his wedding to Martha.”
“Don’t fret about Alys. There’s probably nothing she’d love so much as the ghost of the Bleeding Bride at her wedding. But these Stanhopes—where did they fit into your group?”
“They were the group. They’re what held us together. Because Martha was sweetness and kindness, and her only preoccupations were the ordinary things of life, looking after her invalid mother and the little orphan they’d taken in, being good to her friends, loving her brother and her fiancé … And because Jay was … well, Jay.”
“And what was that?”
“Jay isn’t easy to explain. In a way he was the most absorbed and preoccupied of us all, and yet the most human. I don’t remember who met him first. I think perhaps it was James. But as we met him we all felt that … I can’t put it well. But Lucas and even Horace felt it too. It was something—”
Miss Paris dropped the silver gravy ladle with a ringing clatter, but even that clatter was not loud enough to drown out the echoes of the scream. Or not a scream so much as a howl, an ululation of animal pain.
Fergus was out in the hall and at the foot of the staircase before the echoes had died. “Stay here,” he said curtly to Miss Paris. “Be Horatius at the bridge for me. Don’t let anyone else come upstairs but Dr. Arnold. Get Tom to help you, if you need.” And he was up the stairs, taking two or three at each silent bound.
Two men stood in the hall, both staring at the closed door of Hugh Arnold’s room. James Herndon started toward the door, but Quincy laid a gently restraining hand on his shoulder. “No, James,” he said quietly. “You don’t want to go in there. Not again.”
James Herndon laughed. “If all you think you know, Lucas—”
Quincy’s harsh voice cut across his. “I don’t think you want to say that, James, before this young man. What is it, O’Breen?”
“That scream came from the doctor’s room?”
“I believe so. I was in the bathroom, and James was in his own room, weren’t you, James?”
“Yes, I was reading—”
“Your volume of Eliot? Or its contents?”
At the moment Fergus hardly noticed this seemingly nonsensical remark. He went on and opened the door of Arnold’s room. Nothing seemed disturbed. Jesús Ramirez still lay in the bed, incongruously dressed in a pair of the doctor’s own Russian-style pajamas.
As Fergus entered the room, he heard footsteps behind him. “Stella said you wanted me,” Dr. Arnold explained. “What happened?” He went on to the bed without waiting for an answer and bent over the still body.
Fergus waited tensely.
“Quite all right,” said Dr. Arnold, straightening up at last. “Nothing but a nightmare, I’d guess.” Fergus saw a different picture, that of a man who sighed with relief when Ramirez did not identify him at the dinner table, who feared that that identification might yet be made, who resolved to forestall it … “A happy nightmare,” he said aloud. “It scared away the boogyman.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean,” said Fergus, “that we’d better all foregather in the livingroom. Come on.”
“I must apologize for my patient,” Dr. Arnold explained to the assembled company. “But he received a severe shock, and a disturbed and tortured sleep is only to be expected. Please do not alarm yourselves.”
“Let him choke in his sleep,” Horace Brainard muttered, “and give the rest of us some peace.”
“And now we’re all here,” said Mrs. Brainard brightly, “and we can play games.”
“Mother.”
“Yes, Janet?”
“I don’t like to spoil the party. But shouldn’t we be thinking about how we’re ever going to get off this island? If the Mexican’s boat is gone, why then …”
“Thank you, Janet,” said Fergus. “That is what we are about to do.”
“And who the devil,” Horace Brainard began, “do you think—?”
“Please!” His voice rose clear above Brainard’s splutterings, with that trumpet note of Celtic challenge which brooked no interference. “I wish to see Mr. Brainard, Dr. Arnold, and Miss Paris in the library at once.” He was watching Lucas Quincy carefully and caught the almost imperceptible frown of puzzlement that crossed his face at the omission of his name. “While we talk over necessary measures, I advise the rest of you to stick close together.”
“Oh!” Alys sighed. “Now I know! He’s a detective!” Her eyes grew as round as her breasts. “Are we going to have a murder?”
“My dear,” said Dr. Arnold politely, “that would be no longer a novelty in this happy group.”
As Fergus crossed to the library, he felt on his arm what he had expected, the heavy touch of Lucas Quincy.
“What are you up to?” the rough voice grated.
“Carrying out your job.”
“Which is no longer necessary.”
“You thought it was damned necessary yesterday.”
“That was yesterday. Drop it.”
“And if I can prove to you that it is necessary—far more so than yesterday?”
“You can’t.”
Fergus allowed himself a confident grin. “I don’t make threats,” he said. “But I can point out facts.”
Lucas Quincy let out a short barking laugh. “Young fella, I don’t know anything about you as a detective. Don’t want a detective. But hanged if I don’t like your devilish persistence now that you’ve decided to get a fee out of me.”
“That’s part of it. The part that’s important to me. The other part is more so to you.”
“I’ve got nothing to do with this. Never saw you, and I’ve told you nothing. But if …” He made something between a grunt and a chuckle. “I’m giving you a tip. Horace loves his money and his skin. Use that. And if you can get a fee out of him—I’ll match it.”
Fergus’ grin widened. “Sir,” he said, “you have appeased my Evil Angel. And now we’ll see what the good can do.”
Chapter 5
“All right,” Fergus announced, surveying the group of three in the pseudo-library. “I’ve been putting on my nice-inoffensive-young-man act long enough. For the sake of your precious an
nigod-damnedversary I’ve strained every gut to be the most acceptable guest as ever was. And that act’s laid as thorough an egg as I’ve seen in years. Now we’re going to get down to cases.” He paced restlessly about the room. In his slacks and sport shirt he looked, in contrast to the dinner-jacketed elegance of the other men, like an actor whom the costumer has forgotten and who has to walk through dress rehearsal in his street clothes.
“Cases!” Mr. Brainard snorted. “Who the devil do you think you are?”
“Miss Paris knows, and Dr. Arnold has a damned good idea. But you’re the bigshot here, and I owe you an explanation. I’m afraid I’m not just a rapscallion ne’erdowell or whatever the hell it was you called me. I’m a private investigator—detective to you.”
“Indeed? And I’m expected to take your word for that?”
Fergus grinned. “The big revelation scene isn’t coming off so good, is it? All our hero should have to do is to say, ‘I am Detective Inspector O’Breen of Scotland Yard,’ and boom! down comes the second act curtain and nobody asks any awkward questions. Life should be simpler. But since you’re so ingoddamned-quisitive, here’s my credentials … and thank God they weren’t in my bag too.”
“Your bag?” Dr. Arnold asked.
“Take that up later. Well, sir?”
Horace Brainard looked up from the license and the identification card. “Well?” he repeated. “These items prove that your name is O’Breen and that you are a private investigator, duly licensed. What the devil should that mean to me?”
Fergus paced some more and scratched his red pate. “You see?” he appealed to the others. “He won’t play nice. Now most people would welcome a detective with a murderer at large.”
“Not Horace,” observed Hugh Arnold dryly. “He is no ordinary man.”
“Murderer?” For the first time Horace Brainard’s voice lost a little of its cocky self-assuredness, but only for an instant. “I don’t know anything about a murder. And I’m damned if I see why a detective should intrude on my anniversary.”
Fergus stared at him curiously. “I’ll be a son of a banshee … !” he murmured. “I do believe you honesttogod haven’t any idea why I’m here. You don’t know what happened to Miss Paris’ cat. You don’t even know what’s the matter with Corcoran.”
“I certainly don’t understand a word you’re saying.”
“My, my!” Fergus hoisted himself onto the library table. “No wonder I don’t make sense to you. But you two: what’s all this secret-keeping? Doesn’t anybody trust anybody?”
“You will have observed,” said Dr. Arnold, “that Horace is somewhat insistent on the proper observance of his anniversary. I thought it kinder to keep the truth about Corcoran from him until later. But you, Stella? You hadn’t mentioned Valentino to him?”
“The same reason, Hugh. I was afraid it might upset Catherine. I even warned Janet not to say anything.”
“Just a moment, Miss Paris. Whom did you tell about your cat?”
“The ones that were at the party. I thought one of them might possibly have seen somebody skulking around.”
“And they hadn’t?”
“No. Jim seemed frightfully upset about it. He and Valentino had always been good friends.”
“You phoned Quincy too?”
“Yes. He said he didn’t know anything but he’d ask Alys.”
Fergus nodded contentedly. “Nice to find something that fits.”
“Cats …” Brainard whispered to himself. “Cats again … But that must mean …”
“Look, sir,” said Fergus. “If we go on cryptic-like, we’ll just ball ourselves up worse by the minute. Let’s start at the beginning.”
That note of unsureness was growing in Brainard’s voice. “But what is the beginning?”
“For my money it’s May 10, 1915. And Martha Stanhope. Right, Dr. Arnold?”
“I should dislike to speak too positively—”
“Please, Hugh,” said Miss Paris. “You’re not consoling a patient.”
“Very well. I agree with O’Breen.”
“Then we’ll start there. Miss Paris has told me a little, but I need a hell of a lot more. Come on; tell all. What is the truth on the Stanhope?”
Dr. Arnold hesitated. “How much do you know?”
“I’ve read a little as an aficionado of criminology. In its own small way, it’s a classic case: the perfect example of the unsolved murder that went unsolved only because of police indifference, to be polite about it. There’ve been commentators who hinted at more venal reasons.”
“And you know the facts?”
“I haven’t had time since yesterday to check up on the back files of newspapers, but I did go over Ferguson’s Persons Unknown. You’re familiar with his account?”
“I am,” said Dr. Arnold wryly.
“It’s good, but it’s not what I want. Those facts have been available for a quarter of a century, and even Ferguson can’t find a definite solution in them. What I want is what only you people can give me: not the facts but the truth, the truth of what happened at the Hotel de la Playa.”
“Why the devil are we bringing up all this?” Horace Brainard expostulated sharply. “Martha’s been dead twenty-five years. Her death was a tragedy. Played hell with my honeymoon. But why should we go into all that now?”
“Because,” said Stella Paris, “somebody cut my Valentino’s throat.”
“And,” Dr. Arnold added, “somebody made a very serious attempt at cutting Corcoran’s. Fortunately he used an absurdly dull knife.”
“I can still see it,” Janet was whispering to Tom Quincy in a corner of the livingroom. “I saw it all through dinner. That poor cat lying there on the porch and the little red spots … That must be what they’re talking about, isn’t it?”
“Afraid so,” Tom answered gravely. “That’s Fergus’ business, you know. God, you poor kid … !”
Janet laughed.
“Please, darling, don’t be …”
“Oh no. Don’t worry, Tom. That laugh wasn’t a warning signal of hysteria. It’s just that … For years now I’ve been Our Miss Brainard. The capable editor. The woman of affairs. Miss Brainard doesn’t seem the sort of person any man would call ‘you poor kid.’”
“You’re not Miss Brainard,” Tom said softly. “You’re Janet again now.”
“Am I? I don’t know who I am. I’ve been trying to be a nice dutiful child and not spoil Mother’s anniversary, but I keep thinking about Valentino and wondering about Corcoran and it all writhes and coils inside of me until I …” She broke off and looked up at the tall young man. “This is a fine way to meet again after five years, isn’t it?”
“We’ve met,” said Tom simply. “That’s the main thing. Just how doesn’t matter so much.”
“Doesn’t it?”
There was silence for a moment. Janet thought of a snatch from an old ballad that Uncle Jim used to read: And deep and heavy was the something that fell thir twa between. Something quite irrational and unefficient seemed to be happening to her. She tried to think sensibly. She fixed her mind resolutely on that oddlooking phrase thir twa and tried to figure if it would be a useful addition to the crossword vocabulary. It might be quite helpful, or would it be considered too dialectical? Though God knows you could get away with murder in that respect. And deep and heavy was the something … Tom’s hand closed over hers and she did not stir. Another phrase from a favorite of Uncle Jim’s popped into her head: Our hands were firmly cemented with a fast bond … That was funny too; you had to pronounce it “cemented.”
Come, come, Miss Brainard! What’s the matter with you? Can you do nothing but sit and hold hands and weave streams of consciousness about scraps of verse? Are you weakening, Miss Brainard? Are you vanishing, Miss Brainard? Are you, Miss Brainard, a nebulous figure left behind in New York, while here on this island sits Janet holding hands with …
Janet remembered the word that had escaped her in the ballad. “And deep and heavy was the l
ove,” she said aloud.
“Janet darling!” Catherine Brainard was standing beside her daughter and radiating maternal affection. “I haven’t really had a chance to talk to you ever since you got here. You must tell me all about your magazine and let us both forget this stupid business about the Mexican. You don’t mind if I monopolize her, do you, Tom?”
“Not at all, Aunt Catherine.” Tom released Janet’s hand and rose. “I’ll stretch my legs.” He stretched them in the direction of the whisky decanter where Alys Trent inevitably stood.
“Poor boy!” Mrs. Brainard sighed.
Janet tried to look like Miss Brainard again. “Why?”
“Didn’t you know? He won’t be his uncle’s heir any more. Not that that means anything to you of course but I did think you ought to know. And now do tell me all about those puzzles that I never can figure out.”
“So you can see, Mr. Brainard,” said Fergus, “why I have to know everything. Absogoddamnedlutely everything. This is a council of war.” He paused to let the phrase and its implications sink in. “So to go back to the beginning: What else can you tell me about Martha Stanhope?”
“It wasn’t a prowler?” Brainard’s words came slowly. “Those hints … those rumors … they were true?”
“I will confess,” Dr. Arnold admitted, “that I myself thought at the time that they were merely the fruit of some reporter’s overvivid imagination. But I have told you what an impossible young prig I was, and how resolutely I refused to let personal problems intrude upon my Great Labors. I deliberately forced myself to believe in that prowler, and I preserved that belief for almost exactly twenty-five years. But when I saw Corcoran today …”
“I didn’t believe either,” said Stella Paris, “not even when I saw Valentino. It could have been something else. There are queer sects in Los Angeles. Some of them kill cats, people say. But I was afraid even without believing, and that’s why when I met Mr. O’Breen … Well, I thought it couldn’t do any harm.”
The Case of the Seven Sneezes Page 8
