“And how did you happen to find her? I gather you’d all retired. Wasn’t it a bit unconventional to go to a young lady’s room like that, especially twenty-five years ago?”
“It was Jay,” he said simply. “Her brother. My friend. He was lost on the Lusitania, you know. Only two days before the wedding. He had gone to Europe on a mad peace crusade, working with some hopeless and glorious league. Not an excursion of wishful long-hairs like the Ford fiasco, but an honest and noble movement growing up out of those most deeply concerned. But his mission failed, and he returned to his death—his death in that disaster that finally made peace impossible.
“We all tried not to think of him, for Catherine’s sake and for Horace’s. Jay would not have liked to be a skeleton at their wedding. We pretended to forget him. But when I was alone in my room that night … Now I am wiser. Now I should smoke a pipe and find my own solace. But then I knew only cigarettes, and I was lost. My Sweet Caporals failed me. I needed desperately to talk about Jay, to make him alive again with warm words. I went to his sister.
“And I found death.”
“Dr. Arnold,” said Fergus quietly, “was trying to tell me something about Jay’s last letter to Martha, but he couldn’t remember clearly. Do you happen to recall what was in it?”
“Jay’s last letter …” Herndon trembled slightly. “No, Mr. O’Breen. Martha never read that letter to the group.”
Fergus was silent for a moment. It seemed indecent to pursue his questioning in the face of Herndon’s obviously deep emotion, the deepest and most sincere he had yet encountered in this company. “This Jay,” he ventured; “you liked him a lot?”
“I loved him,” said James Herndon.
Fergus hesitated. Like any good Irishman, he devotes much of his time to damning the qualities of the British; but he has nonetheless a trace of British reserve in his makeup. There are some emotions one does not mention in so many words, and one of these is the emotion between man and man. One simply says, “Sure, a hell of a good joe,” or something equally meaningless. But this …
He changed the subject. “Lucas Quincy made a cryptic remark to me earlier this evening, and I think you’re the man to interpret it for me. Want to play Daniel?”
Herndon roused himself. “Gladly. If I can.”
“Daniel’s text was four words long, and it took him twenty-nine to translate it. Let’s see how many words you can get out of these five: The solution lies in Eliot.”
Herndon started. “Then it was you … ! Or no. Of course. You wouldn’t ask if you …” He paused and asked, “Might I take a very small drink?”
“Go ahead.”
“Thank you.” The drink was not small, it was minute; but it seemed to give him courage to go on. “It is because I do not hope to turn again that I can speak. I must speak. Because I know that what is actual is actual only for one time and only for one place and yet this is the time and the place when this is actual and urgent and needful. I … This is difficult, sir; you must have patience with me.”
Fergus nodded in sympathetic silence.
“I thought for many years that I … that I knew who had killed Martha. Then Corcoran taught me otherwise and again I thought I knew. Now I know nothing; and yet you must know these false knowledges, because they may lead you to the truth.
“I could show you where it ‘lies in Eliot,’ but there is one thing not there. I forgot it then, though now you have reminded me and I see its place. It was the letter that Martha never read to us and her dear and unbelievable change and Jay’s last letter to me and that odd threat to Lucas, though I never understood it. And yet it must be the key, though now even that does not fit in the lock …”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Herndon. I don’t think I understand all this. Perhaps if you went back and started at the beginning … ?”
“You spoke of Eliot, Mr. O’Breen. Do you remember Sweeney trying to tell of a murder to Doris and Snow and the others, trying to explain how he knew a man once did a girl in, and finding that there are no words to tell what he knows? ‘I gotta use words when I talk to you,’ he complains, and there are no words. But I shall make my poor attempt to—”
It was then that the offstage noise drowned his speech. It was a confused noise, compounded of screams from several women and a harsh bellow of rage and pain which could have issued only from Horace Brainard.
Fergus snatched up the Smoker’s Companion and dashed across to the livingroom, James Herndon at his heels.
It was a tableau, a game of living statues. The guests were ranged about the room, frozen in attitudes of futile intervention. Horace Brainard stood in the center, furious amazement on his face. His hand was clasped to his jaw, and blood was seeping through his fingers.
Before him stood his wife Catherine. Her hand still clenched a dripping shard of glass, and she was laughing softly.
Chapter 10
“Damn you, Catherine.” Horace Brainard’s voice was more bewildered than angry. “You’re … you’re as bad as your Aunt Margaret.”
His words seem to dissolve the tableau. These were people again, and no longer gorgon-struck statues. Fergus stepped forward, the Smoker’s Companion obviously in readiness. “All right,” he said curtly. “What goes?”
For a moment no one seemed willing to speak. Then Dr. Arnold took the floor. “Merely a moral lesson, Mr. O’Breen, in the rewards of the loudmouthed.”
“And what may that mean?”
“Horace was singing a psalm of deliverance and discovering a striking instance of divine justice in the fate that had singled out for destruction Lucas Quincy, the lone bachelor, and spared Horace Brainard, the solid paterfamilias. He exulted to such a point that Catherine felt herself driven to snatch up a glass, shatter it on the table, and cut short his triumph with the broken stem.”
Mrs. Brainard’s laughter had ceased. She was sobbing gently now, and Janet was murmuring, “There, Mother …”
“I was deeply relieved,” Dr. Arnold added, “that she did so. Another sentence on the wonders which God has seen fit to shower upon His chosen Horace, and I dread to think what I might have done myself. Take down your hand, Horace. Let me see the cut.”
Sullenly Brainard lowered his hand. “Crazy bitch,” he muttered. “Could have killed me.”
Dr. Arnold smiled. “No fear, Horace. The wonders of the Lord are still manifested. I have cut myself worse than that while shaving.”
“Oh.” Brainard looked crestfallen.
“O. K.,” said Fergus and began to pace the room. “Here’s one more reason why we should get ahead with these interviews and fuse order out of chaos as soon as congoddamnedceivably possible. We’ve got more to fear than the murderer. We have to fear ourselves. Until that murderer is found, we are every one of us in such a state of nervous tension that we could outdo his best efforts at the drop of a hat. This may be a moral lesson in the rewards of the loud-mouthed; it’s also an object lesson to all of you to cooperate with me to the crowning pitch of your ability.
“Now I’ll leave Dr. Arnold in charge here and resume my questioning. Mr. Herndon, shall we finish our conference?”
James Herndon boggled. His corncob was still glowing, but he made much business of relighting it to gain time. “Mr. O’Breen,” he said at last, “I am afraid I have already told you all that lies in my power.”
“But man, you—”
“Please, Mr. O’Breen. Go on with the others. Finish your meticulous charts. And then let me see if I can say what I must say. And in the meanwhile, may I have permission to leave this focus of emotions and retire to the calm of my own room?”
“You may not,” said Fergus curtly. “I can’t force you to talk to me, but at least I can keep you from tethering yourself out as a stalking goat. You stay here. Miss Paris, will you come to the library with me?”
He followed her to the door, then turned abruptly and demanded, “One more question: Who the hell is Aunt Margaret?”
On the part of the young people
the ensuing silence was merely puzzled. To the older generation it was seemingly painful until Dr. Arnold broke it.
“Miss Margaret Herndon,” he explained, “was a charming and gentle old lady whose sole slight flaw was a conviction that she belonged to the eminent Sanson family of French headsmen. She called herself Madame de Paris and spent much of her time in devising new and improved guillotines to be used on her closest acquaintances, including, quite naturally, the attendants at the asylum.”
“Fun!” Alys murmured.
“But as anyone can see,” Dr. Arnold added casually, with a benevolent glance at James Herndon and his sister, “her nephew and niece are as sane as you or I.”
“I got you into this,” Stella Paris confessed as her inquisition ended. “Now you’ve got to get us out of it.”
Fergus looked out of the window. “No sign of dawn yet.”
“You sound like a symbolic subtitle from my great days. Or are you just making a literal statement?”
“Both. It’s a long night and a long black problem …” He turned back to the table and looked over his notes. “There’s a terrible unanimity about these reports. Not that they check each other, but that they all so congoddamnedsistently refuse to check anything.”
“Mine too?”
“Same like the rest. When Corcoran was attacked: dressing. When Ramirez was slugged: alone in the kitchen. And like the rest, you agree that nobody at that dinner party could have killed Valentino.”
“I said it must have been a cultist, didn’t I?”
“And so that’s why you called me in?”
“Do you expect me to make sense? Look. When a hand’s as fat as that and can still tremble … I’ll bet you I couldn’t even whip up a souffle, the state I’m in, and my soufflés used to be worth coming miles for.”
“They will be again, and I’m counting on one. That’s a delicate height of art I haven’t reached yet myself. Oh, and tonight: You were still awake when Janet came in?”
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t speak to her?”
“I’m afraid I’m a sentimentalist. I’d heard her and Tom murmuring outside the door; I thought she’d want to lie undisturbed in starry-eyed bliss. And instead she goes right off to sleep. Yours, young man, is an unromantic generation.”
“Healthy, though,” said Fergus. “Great for the nerves, sleep. Wonderful for the constitution. God, I wonder what it feels like … And you went on staying awake?”
“Kind of. Tossing-like.”
“And you didn’t hear anything in the hall?”
“I did hear movements now and then. But I thought it would just be Tom stretching his legs on guard or maybe somebody going to the bathroom. I thought if anything serious should happen … Well, after all, Tom was there, wasn’t he?”
“Sure. The O’Breen guard system. Magnificent. And Janet slept all this time?”
“Like a log. Only she looked more comfortable.”
“All right.” Fergus made checkmarks. “Now tell me, Stella: What do you know about Jay Stanhope’s last letter?”
“Jay’s last letter? But I’m afraid I don’t remember which was his last. Was that the one in which he said the British police had decided he was an alien agitator?”
“I don’t know. It’s just that some of the others mentioned that Martha hadn’t read Jay’s last letter aloud. It seemed an odd fact.”
“It would be. She always read them. And she looked so much like Jay that you’d think he was telling you all about it in person. But wait—I do remember. There was one letter she didn’t read. And it was that night—or was it? Yes, it was right after that …”
“… that the first cat died?”
“No. That was the next day. But this … It’s just another funny thing. Something little and meaningless, probably, but you say you want to know everything. It was just after that letter that Martha went for a long walk with Jim when she was supposed to go to the dressmaker’s with Catherine. They were gone forever, it seemed like, and when they got back Jim was terribly upset.”
“Upset’s a vague word. How do you mean?”
“It’s hard to say, especially after so long. But I can see them coming back and remember wondering what on earth Martha had said to him. He was frightfully disturbed, as though something were gnawing at him. And just the same there seemed to be something almost—well, almost exultant about him.”
“Hm,” said Fergus.
“Does that help any? Does it mean anything?”
“Damned if I know. But it goes into the hopper of this sorting machine that I call a deductive mind, and we’ll see what comes out … Think I could see Mrs, Brainard now? I hate to plague her after all she’s been through—and been up to—tonight, but I have to feed that hopper chuckablock full.”
“I know Catherine’s nervous crises,” Miss Paris smiled. “Only men really worry about them, and please, I’m not meowing.”
“Which incidentally: Did she like Martha?”
“Of course. We all did.”
“As herself, or as Jay’s sister?”
“Well … the latter mostly, I guess. I don’t think we did pay much attention to her as herself, excepting Lucas of course. And Jim.”
“Herndon too?”
“Yes. I thought for a long time that she’d probably marry him, and then she up and announces her engagement to Lucas. I still think it’s a shame. If a girl like Martha had married Jim, he might have been somebody. But after her death he just … just drifted.”
“After this walk-episode—would you say he seemed angry with Martha?”
“I don’t know. Puzzled, confused … yes, and I would say angry, too. Martha had tears in her eyes. I think they’d had words. And that’s odd enough, because I don’t remember anybody else ever having words with Jim. At him, perhaps, but not with him.”
“Damn,” Fergus muttered. “I keep feeling there’s something to this letter and this walk if I could only get at it. Maybe everything … But meanwhile, I’ll see Mrs. Brainard.”
“One suggestion, if I may?”
“Sure.”
“Don’t say anything about Horace and the broken glass. You know that that has nothing to do with … with the rest of it, and it might just start her off again.”
There was a strange urgency in Stella’s voice.
“Murder is an epidemic. One guy lets loose his hatred with a carving knife, and the idea begins to appeal to everybody else who ever hated. I’ve got to crack this goddamned thing, or we’ll all be shattering glasses.”
“And probably,” said Stella Paris, “all using them on Horace …”
Tom Quincy knocked on the door and came in. “Uncle Horace has walked out on us.”
“Walked out?” Fergus repeated.
“Thought you’d like to know. Of course I could have thrown one of my famous blocks on him, but—”
“Where did he go?”
“Upstairs. Said he was damned if he was going to sit around with people who carved him up with glasses. You can see his point.”
“And you let him—?”
“What could I do?”
“You could have socked the cocky little— No. You’re right. It wouldn’t have accomplished a thing beyond putting the final kibosh on my chances for a fee. But I’m going out there now and talk to the others.”
“O. K.,” said Tom. “But I warn you: I think they’re all going to follow his example. After all, my friend, I can’t actually stop them.”
They already had, most of them at least. Only Janet and Dr. Arnold remained in the livingroom.
“When Father left,” Janet explained, “Mother said what was he doing, returning to the scene of the crime? and went after him.”
“Juicy remark,” said Fergus.
“You can’t pay any attention to what she says, she’s so upset. And I don’t blame her; it’s all I can do to keep from grabbing glasses myself. Then Uncle Jim said so long as the gathering was breaking up, he had a little quiet t
hinking to do; and Alys put on a putrid Garbo imitation and said she vanted to be alawn and trailed off upstairs.”
“And now,” Dr. Arnold asked courteously, “what do you plan to do, Mr. O’Breen?”
Fergus paced and swore inaudibly. “What can I do? Maybe they’re right at that. God knows another scene like that glass-business wouldn’t help us any. And I’m not the police. I can’t drag ’em back here by main force and station a guard with orders to shoot. You might as well run along too, all of you. Crawl into your nice white windingsheets and go to sleep and pray God you’ll wake up again.”
Arnold bowed. “Thank you. I need sleep.”
“We all do. Look: I’m staying awake, keeping an eye peeled if possible. You can’t get much sleep in that armchair; why don’t you use my room?”
“Thank you. I shall. Are you retiring too, Stella?”
“You don’t need me any more?”
Fergus waved her away. “Go rest. And forget my choice little outburst about windingsheets. We’re safe enough with every cutting edge in this establishment under my eye. Hold out through the night, and tomorrow we’ll be safe back in civilization.”
Las Vegas, Nevada, thought Detective Lieutenant A. Jackson, is the goddamnedest town. It exists solely for the violation of California laws. Its three industries are quick marriage, quick divorce, and open gambling.
It was the first of these that absorbed him at the moment. He grinned indifferently at the slot-machines crammed into every available square foot of floor space and at the grimly intense gamblers, even at this hour of the night (or morning) resolutely pursuing their favorite will-o’-the-wisps; but what concerned him was the marriage racket, the endless number of auto camps with signs MINISTER IN ATTENDANCE, ready at any hour to solve the problems of Californians who can’t wait three days or who are doubtful as to the results of the compulsory Wassermann.
The Case of the Seven Sneezes Page 17
