The Case of the Seven Sneezes

by Anthony Boucher

  “There is,” Fergus announced deliberately, “one thing to do.” He drove a short hard right to Alys’ jaw.

  Back of the house, Joe Corcoran stared at the darkness in a brief interlude of consciousness and wished his throat would stop hurting so that he could smoke.

  In the house, Tom Quincy sat, back to the wall, revolver in hand. It was foolish to be nervous, he kept telling himself. This was something that had to be done. He’d faced far more active danger in his days as an athlete.

  Lucas Quincy tossed half-awake and wished for something young and warm in his bed. Fear and age make the bones cold.

  In the master bedroom, the Brainards pretended to sleep and stared at each other silently in the darkness.

  James Herndon decided to fill his meerschaum once more before he turned in. For a moment he longed for its companion, and then wondered what he could do if he did have it.

  Janet slept soundly.

  Stella Paris lay awake, wishing for some human soul to talk to.

  Jesus Ramirez began to toss a little. The narcotic was wearing off.

  Dr. Arnold settled into the armchair beside the sleeping Mexican. Then he rose, found his medicine case, and tucked it safely under the chair. The murderer’s weapon had been a knife so far, but ideas can change.

  The murderer …

  ii

  The murderer went about it quietly and efficiently.

  The first step was the stunning. That was easy, just as it had been with Ramirez. A sock makes a firstrate weapon when you have a beachful of sand available.

  The murderer looked at the unconscious body on the floor. He looked at the empty chair where the guard had sat. He left the bone-handled revolver on the floor. He didn’t need that.

  He smiled.

  Then he tried his victim’s door. It was unlocked. He had counted on that. His victim would trust the guard, and his pride would be too great to allow him to display such symptoms of fear as locking doors.

  His victim stirred and said, “Who’s that?”

  The murderer stood by the light switch but did not touch it. He said, “I was worried about you.”

  His victim said, “Oh. It’s you.” He sounded unimpressed and a little scornful.

  The murderer said, “Premonitions are absurd.”

  His victim gave a wordless snort.

  The murderer said, “Still I had to satisfy myself.”

  His victim said, “Touching.”

  The murderer said, “You’re sure you’re all right? You haven’t seen or heard anything?”

  His victim said, “Not a thing. I’m all right. And I’m sleepy. Go away.”

  The murderer said, “Sh!”

  His victim said, “Why?”

  The murderer said, “Don’t you hear something? Right in the next room there?”

  His victim said, “Nonsense.”

  The murderer went to the wall to listen. Now he stood beside the bed. The rest was simple.

  iii

  Fergus tied the bundle of knives to his belt (keys to an empty stable since one was already missing, but still …), hoisted the unconscious Alys onto his shoulder, and started back to the house.

  “This is going to slay Andy Jackson,” he thought. He could see the detective lieutenant arriving the next morning and grinning his slow grin at this narrative. “What was really in danger,” Fergus would say, “was my virtue.” And why is it that a reluctant woman is a noble heroine, while a reluctant man is inescapably a figure of fun?

  The weight of Alys’ body was warm against him, and her scent was strong. It was easy to ridicule her, to say that her fun-and-excitement philosophy was dated, that life was real and life was earnest and depraved was not its goal, that physical diversions have no place in the carrying out of duty.

  But just the same, Fergus kept thinking as he lugged her up the staircase of the silent house, just the same … It isn’t so much that the flesh is weak. The trouble is that the flesh is so damned strong and peremptory.

  He reached the top of the stairs. And all temptations, all unprofessional urgings of the flesh were dispelled by one glance. He dumped Alys on the floor with something less than due ceremony, and hastened to the outstretched body of Tom Quincy.

  He knelt beside the quiet form, put forth a none too steady hand as if to touch it, then paused and settled back on his haunches while he took in the picture: the empty chair standing against the wall, the burst sock and the trail of sand on the floor, the revolver lying near it, the sand on the back of Tom’s neck.

  He took a deep breath of relief, and his hand was steadier. It was Ramirez again, and not Corcoran; the stunning blow to the head, and not the knife at the throat. He crouched there a moment longer, fixing every detail of the scene on his mind. Then he took up the revolver, rose nimbly, and hurried to the room where they had taken the Mexican.

  He opened the door quietly. Ramirez lay on the bed. His breathing was heavy and regular. Dr. Arnold sprawled in the armchair, his dressing gown wrapped blanket-wise about his crimson Russian-cut pajamas.

  Fergus shook him gently by the arm.

  The doctor opened his eyes. “At last,” he said. “You’ve got the kettle boiling?” Then he blinked and stared at Fergus. “I must have been dreaming back to my G. P. days,” he apologized. “I always went to sleep when I was waiting for a delivery.” He stood up and began to put the dressing gown on backwards, as one wears a surgeon’s gown. He caught himself, laughed at his mistake, then suddenly grew grave. “What has happened?” he demanded tensely.

  Fergus kept his voice deliberately cool.

  “Not what you think,” said Fergus, and added, “I hope. It’s Tom. Somebody slugged him.”

  Dr. Arnold gestured at the bed. “Like—?”

  “Uh huh. Reprise of the Ramirez theme. ’Twas the voice of the slugger; I heard him complain …”

  “Where is he?”

  “Out here.”

  Fergus led the way into the hall. Dr. Arnold started toward Tom, then saw the sprawling form of Alys and wavered. “Both of them?”

  “She doesn’t count. That’s just a subplot.”

  “But if—”

  “Full explanations later. Point is, Tom needs attention now.”

  But Dr. Arnold seemed inescapably drawn to the unconscious girl. He opened her coat, and his eyes narrowed. He rested his fingers against her flesh for a moment, and then jerked them away as though they were burned.

  “Leave her alone,” Fergus insisted. “She’ll be O. K. in ten-twenty minutes. If I gauged it right.”

  “If you … ?” Dr. Arnold looked from the naked body to Fergus and back. He smiled slowly, sardonically and yet almost admiringly. “Such strength of character,” he murmured. He replaced the coat and went over to Tom.

  Fergus had finished half a cigarette when the doctor rose. “He’ll be all right,” Arnold announced contentedly.

  “Thank God.”

  “Nothing near so serious as Ramirez. Just enough to stun him. Here, help me get him into my room.”

  Tom stirred a little as they carried him, and muttered wordless noises. “He should come to of himself in a few minutes,” said the doctor as they settled him into the armchair. “Then perhaps he can tell us—” He started to close the door.

  Fergus intercepted him and pushed it even wider open. “Sorry. But I’ve got to keep an eye on that hall. Somehow I don’t think this slugging was personal.”

  “Not personal? What does that mean, O’Breen?”

  “It means our playful friend the sock-mucker didn’t slug Tom personal-like, he slugged the guard. Same like he didn’t slug Ramirez, he slugged the guy with the boat. The slugging part makes good practical sense, whatever you think of the throat-cutting.”

  Dr. Arnold frowned. “You think then that Tom was attacked in order that some one might …”

  Fergus nodded. “And we’d better get there before he does. Or at least,” he added tautly, “pretty promptly after he did.”

  The
two men looked at the silent doors. “There is no point,” said Dr. Arnold, “in rousing everyone. If nothing has happened, why, let them sleep on in peace.”

  “Right,” Fergus agreed. He tried the door of the master bedroom, then bent over and peered in at the keyhole. “Locked on the inside. That should be all right.”

  As they were about to pass on, Mrs. Brainaid’s shrill voice sounded from inside. “Who’s that?”

  “Let her go back to sleep,” Fergus whispered.

  Arnold nodded. “Catherine is a nervous woman; she will need what rest she can get.”

  “Which don’t we all …” The door of the room shared by Janet and Stella Paris was unlocked. Fergus opened it cautiously and peeked in. Janet was sound asleep, curled up in a tight ball and looking very young. Miss Paris opened her eyes at the light from the hall.

  “Just a check-up,” Fergus whispered reassuringly. She nodded her comprehension, and rolled over.

  Next he opened the door to James Herndon’s room. Noiselessly he stepped into the still smoky atmosphere. Then he retreated sharply.

  “Job for you,” he said tensely to Arnold.

  He hadn’t looked closely. He hadn’t seen more than that long old body stretched out on the floor and the meerschaum fallen beside it.

  You don’t get used to bodies. Maybe you do in time. Maybe doctors do. They at least know that they can help, if help is still possible. But when you know that the only thing you can do now is to try to bring about atonement …

  His mind was already active on this problem of atonement. Somehow this latest turn had astonished him. It shouldn’t have been Herndon. That bitched up the whole train of reasoning. It meant starting in again from scratch and …

  Dr. Arnold was speaking to him. “This is getting monotonous.”

  “Cold-blooded, aren’t we? Any hope for the old man?”

  “You misunderstand me. I said monotonous. This is the slugger again.”

  “What?”

  “It must be. No noticeable bruise—there’s the great advantage of the sock method—but there are particles of sand in the hairs at the nape of the neck. Another light blow like Tom’s. He’ll be all right in no time.”

  Fergus swore, flatly, quietly, and colorlessly.

  “I know,” the doctor agreed. “It’s nonsense. Slugging could only be a means, not an end. But two of them … ?”

  “Worse than nonsense. It’s an outgoddamnedrageous perversion of possibility. But supposing—” There was one loud sharp scream. Then there was a confused babble of words that put Fergus’ swearing to shame. Then there was silence.

  “Quincy’s room,” said Fergus. “Quick.”

  The light was on in the room and the door was open. Mrs. Brainard stood by the bedside. There was blood down the front of her frilly pink robe. Her only movement was a spasmodic clenching of the hands that hung at her sides. Her eyes were fixed rigidly on the bed and its burden.

  The monotony was over.

  Chapter 8

  Catherine Brainard did not see them. She stumbled toward the door, wide-eyed and blind. Fergus caught her by the wrists. “Where are you going?”

  She lurched forward and stopped. “Lucas. He killed Lucas.” The blood from her robe smeared onto Fergus’ yellow shirt.

  “Who killed him?”

  “He did. I don’t know. He can’t …”

  “What did you see? What brought you in here?”

  “Let me go. Let me go, I have to …”

  There was strength in her wrists, a wrenching twisting strength that almost freed her. Then all force abruptly went out of her and she sagged limp against the detective. Her body jerked with dry sobs.

  “Go back to bed,” said Fergus. “Dr. Arnold will give you something. You’ll feel better.”

  “Here. Let me.” This was Stella Paris standing behind him in the doorway. She put a gently compelling arm around the shaken woman and led her off toward the master bedroom. Horace Brainard stood by the open door of that room. His face was pale and his jaw hung down useless. He did not say a word as the two women went past him. He only stared at Fergus and moved his eyes questioningly to indicate the inside of Quincy’s room.

  Fergus nodded. Brainard’s pale face grew paler yet, and he leaned back against the doorjamb for support. Then Fergus saw another door open. Janet was coming out. Hastily he stepped back into the room where Quincy lay, and shut the door behind him.

  Dr. Arnold straightened up from his examination. “I’ve touched as little as possible,” he said.

  “No chance for him then?”

  “It was a sharp knife this time.”

  “Is it there?”

  “No. I simply judge from the wound. The knife is gone. Probably our friend prefers to remain armed.”

  Fergus tried not to stare at him. It was unbelievable. No man could remain so composedly unmoved beside the corpse of a friend of twenty-five years standing. It was understandable, perhaps, that the passing of Lucas Quincy should be not too deeply mourned; but an attitude of such complete indifference bordered on the terrible.

  Fergus shook his head wordlessly and started pacing. For the duration of one cigarette he roamed the room in silence. His green eyes glanced eagerly about, trying to take in each last detail that might be significant.

  “In that famous vanished suitcase,” he said at last, “there was a damned accurate little Leica which would come in mighty handy now. Though at that I’m hanged if I know what it would find worth recording. Tidy man, the late Mr. Quincy. Room all shipshape and not a sign of anybody else’s presence. … What can you tell me from the wound, doctor?”

  Dr. Arnold spoke with the impersonality of a police surgeon. “Very little, I fear. The murderer must have stood here beside the bed, slightly behind Quincy. He made it with one stroke.”

  “Indicating some knowledge?”

  “Knowledge? Oh, surgical, you mean? Perhaps. Not impossibly. But equally possibly it was simply good luck.”

  “And practice,” Fergus added bitterly. “He’s had plenty of that. Go on.”

  “As you can see, the blood spurted forward. I doubt if so much as a drop hit the murderer.”

  “Helpful-like,” Fergus grunted.

  “The body is still warm. I’d say the killing took place within the past half-hour, though that is necessarily guesswork.”

  “While I was being Pure and Stainless. Fun. Anything else?”

  “Nothing specially indicative. It’s your elaborate killings that leave a signature. This one is so simple. The man’s throat was cut. That is all.”

  “And somebody out there …” Fergus gestured toward the hall.

  “Or,” Dr. Arnold emended meticulously, “in here. Oh, and one thing more: the cut was right-handed.”

  “And so,” Fergus grunted, “is everybody on this island. We don’t get much coöperation from Fate, do we?” He knelt down, peered closely at the floor, stretched himself out full length, struck a match, and thrust it under the bed. “Uh huh,” he muttered. “Thought so.” He took a handkerchief in his right hand, scrabbled about a bit, and emerged with the smooth-bone-handled carving knife.

  “So he did disarm himself,” Arnold observed. “Possibly his fixation includes some curious notion that each crime deserves a fresh weapon. But why tuck it under the bed?”

  Fergus indicated a little dark pool on the floor. “He probably dropped it here. Then—see this smudge?—when Mrs. Brainard came to the bedside—”

  “And again why?”

  “God knows I’d like the answer to that one myself. But why or no why—when she came, she kicked the knife under the bed.”

  “Accidentally?”

  “You tell me. Anyway, here it is.” Fergus held it up by the blood-stained blade and regarded it intensely. “Quite a change for this from beef. Or was it? Butchery is butchery. It was a brute part for it to kill so capital a calf …” He crossed to the dressing table and began to examine the toilet articles on its top.

  “Wh
at are you looking for there?”

  “My insufflator was another loss, of course. And he knew that. So there’s the bare chance that he was careless.” Fergus laid the knife on the dresser. He took up a container of talcum powder, poured a little of it into the palm of his hand, and began to blow gently on it. A cloud of powder rose and settled evenly over the handle of the knife.

  Fergus groaned and absently wiped his palm on his shirt. “Nothing. Not a trace. But at least I don’t have to worry about guarding this handle like the crown jewels. This coarse powder couldn’t have brought out very clear impressions, but it should have shown us if there were any. It’s clean.” He added the knife to the collection hanging from his waist.

  Arnold smiled. “Such an arsenal.”

  “If our friend wants a nice fresh knife again, I’ll be due for the next slugging. Sort of impractical to corral all the socks on the island too.”

  “What next?”

  “Well, first of all …” Fergus paced a turn around the room and halted facing Arnold. “You know, doctor, I’m a heel. I’ve got a pretty fair loathing for myself right now.”

  “There’s no need to blame yourself, O’Breen. You took intelligent precautions. You stationed an armed guard. It isn’t your fault that he was caught out.”

  “It’s not that … Remember the conditions I set for Brainard?”

  “Indeed I do. Five hundred if you caught the murderer, another five if you got us all safely off this island.”

  “Uh huh. And I’ve been hoping that if I pulled it off I still might collect. Brainard might get a rush of gratitude to the heart or such. And besides—hell, there’s no point to keeping a secret now—Quincy himself had promised me a fee for the solution of the Stanhope case.”

  Dr. Arnold’s eyebrows rose, but he made no comment.

  “So now, while I’m standing here wearing a bloody knife and that poor bastard is sprawled there in his own gore, you know what I’m thinking? I’m thinking, Well, there’s one fee and half another shot to hell.”

  Dr. Arnold looked at the bed and smiled incongruously. “Don’t feel so perturbed, Mr. O’Breen. I am sure that Lucas Quincy would have the liveliest sympathy with your reaction.”