“What does Janet think?”
She looked up and saw him standing beside her, tall and strong and (a word you’d never dare say to a man, but you can think it to yourself) beautiful. “I’m afraid Janet just thinks you’re wonderful,” she said simply.
Tom was on his knees beside her when the light rap came at the door. He said “Damn” but rose and answered it.
“Listen,” Fergus began in a whisper. “I’ve got the final scheme that’s going to straighten out this tangle. Were— Hello, Janet.”
“Am I in the way, O’Breen?”
“Meaning that I am? But this is important. Mind if I steal your boyfriend?”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” said Janet stoutly. “He’s my fiance.”
Tom stifled a shout of triumph.
Fergus looked at him curiously. “What the hell, sir? Is that news to you?”
“Practically,” Tom admitted. “And is it marvelous!”
“I’ll congratulate you when we have time. Come on. Sleep tight, Janet.”
In the library, out of all possible earshot of the others, Fergus explained his plan. “Our friend’s getting practical in his murders. This attempt on Ramirez was no outburst of mania, it was cold rational self-protection. So what should be his next step?“
“Corcoran.”
“Head of the class. He thinks Ramirez is dead, but he can’t be sure that Corcoran mightn’t have seen something too. The last living witness is going to be a hell of a temptation.”
“And if he succumbs?”
“We’ll be there. He won’t expect a guard there, and no matter how he’s armed himself this time—and God how that man can improvise: socks, skewers, scout knives (alliterative too)—the two of us should be able to overpower him. That’ll be the last piece of evidence we need.”
“The last piece? You mean you know who it is?”
“I’ve got some vague ideas, but I’m not talking yet. Now you hie out to Corcoran’s shed. Go the long way round and come up on it from behind so you aren’t seen from the house. Sconce yourself in the dark there and wait for me.”
“While you do what?”
“Drop around and see if everybody’s all right for the night and incidentally mention casual-like that Corcoran’s much better and Dr. Arnold says he can talk in the morning.”
Tom hesitated in the doorway. “Are you sure … You know we can’t positively eliminate anybody. Is it wise to leave Dr. Hugh guarding Ramirez? Supposing that was just the chance he wanted? Shouldn’t one of us stay here?”
“Single guards don’t hold up so good against our friend. No, we’ll double on Corcoran. Ramirez is safe; his attacker must think he killed him or he wouldn’t have left him without finishing it off.”
“But the doctor knows he’s still alive.”
“Uh uh.” Fergus shook his head. “No danger there. Arnold is the one man who’s positively out on this now. He had examined Ramirez before. Out of all the people on this island, he’s the only one who couldn’t possibly have stabbed the Mex in the left side. Now go watch the goat; I’m going upstairs to chat with prospective tigers.”
Chapter 11
The little room smelled of antiseptic and sickbed sweat, with a sweet underlying base of blood.
The moon had set hours ago. Fergus stepped into a cube of solid black. He held the antique revolver in one hand and a flashlight in the other, but he had not used the light. The knives, still fastened to his belt, jangled as he entered.
“Hi!” said Tom. “Welcome to the tiger trap.”
There was a linen rustle from the bed.
“Sh!” said Fergus. “No talking. Give our friend credit for some sense. He’s not going to stroll into a trap baited with cheery voices.”
“O. K.,” said Tom resignedly. “But how do I keep awake?”
“Think about Janet. Or Lana Turner. Or work cube roots in your head. Or solve this case, just to pass the time. Now let there be a deathly hush.”
There was. Fergus groped his way to the bed and listened reassured to Corcoran’s regular breathing. It had not been really a lie that he’d used for bait. There was a good chance that Corcoran would be talking tomorrow … today? … what time was it anyway? … and that he’d have something vitally important to say. It behooved the anonymous gentleman whom Fergus had taken to calling “our friend” to act and act promptly.
Fergus settled himself in a corner where he could watch both the door and the window. He deliberately squeezed himself into an uncomfortable position. Ease and comfort were dangerous seducers when you were as sleepy as this. And a sleeping guard is a degree or two worse than none.
What he could use right now was a radio program of symphonic music. That worked sometimes; set the thoughts flowing in regular channels, marshaled them, ordered them until suddenly there they were all in parade formation and spelling out the solution. He remembered the time he had embarrassed his sister Maureen by jumping up with a yelp in the midst of a Hollywood Bowl program and dashing to the phone to explain to Andy Jackson who had murdered the dwarf who kept tame chameleons. Good old Andy; there was a man, take him for all in all. Level-headed but imaginative, ingenious yet never erratic. The very model of a modem detective lieutenant.
This is driveling thought, he reminded himself sternly. This is what you put yourself to sleep with. Think about the case.
He wished there were some light, so he could study that careful and illegible chart. He knew the facts in his mind, but that wasn’t the same thing. You see them on paper, neatly serried among ruled lines, and they mean something fresh. But he wasn’t taking a chance on the flash, and the starlight was too feeble.
He could just make out the form on the bed now, the tethered goat of this hopeful trap. And he could see Tom near him, perfectly silent but still awake. At least his eyes were open.
Fergus felt wrong somehow. He was beside one victim of a mass murderer, waiting for the maniac to return and finish off his job. He should be feeling stress and tension and unimaginable suspense. His hackles should be rising, every nerve should be aquiver, and all the other physiological phenomena so commonplace in pulps should be following their wonted course. And instead he sat there calmly and tried to keep from going to sleep. What was the matter with him? Had he become a blasé spectator like Arnold? What the hell went on?
And then he realized. That was just it. Nothing went on. Nothing stirred. There was not a twitter of noise in the world but the lapping of the sea on the beach. There was not a glinting of light in the universe but the faint faint sheen of the stars. He and Tom and Corcoran were alone in a cube of space. Outside were stars and ocean. And that was all.
For suspense, for terror you needed the creaking board that might be the murderer’s footfall, the flickering fire that might be the murderer’s candle, the hovering bat that might be the murderer’s shadow. Here and now, where there was nothing, there could be no horror, no murderer even though you sat beside his victim, even though you knew that your life and his might be balanced against each other within the next hour.
So Fergus, awaiting a murderer, yawned.
He seized a fold of flesh on the inner surface of his leg between the knuckles of his index and middle fingers and nipped with all his force. The stinging sharpness of the little pain shot through his body and his eyes popped wide open. He stared ahead of him into the dim starlight and began asking himself questions. Some of these inconsistencies might resolve themselves now that he had more knowledge to work on.
Why had Catherine Brainard accused her husband of murder?
Because she knew that he had a motive for murder. Lucas Quincy had been her lover. This was hypothesis, but it explained so many matters. It explained Mrs. Brainard’s odd stares of jealousy at Alys. It explained Alys’ remark about Lucas’ wanting a change and her other cryptic comment about “all in the family.” It explained Catherine Brainard and the broken glass. It explained the accusation against Horace—with the reservation, of course, that that
accusation might be perfectly true. It even—yes, it explained one of his earlier questions.
Why was Horace Brainard so meek and subservient to Lucas Quincy?
Because he was dependent upon Quincy. Because all his pretense of being a financial bigshot was simply a cover-up, possibly even for himself, of the fact that Quincy had made him. His horns had sprouted and borne profitable fruit. For Catherine’s sake, Lucas had dragged this nasty little nonenity after him in his career. Wasn’t each of Horace’s endeavors one in which Lucas was eminent? And Horace, not realizing the true cause, was still careful never to offend his patron. Yes, that checked. He thought over his other questions.
Why was the polite James Herndon so markedly insolent to Alys?
That was easy now too. Because she looked too much like a vicious parody of Martha Stanhope. And of Jay, as well. The Stanhopes must have had an unusually high degree of physical resemblance; and that accounted for a good deal. It could explain why both Lucas and Herndon had been strongly drawn toward Martha; it was a way in which devotion to, even love of her brother could be expressed within the normal mores of our society. Or would Lucas’ emotion for Jay be love? More probably a curious mixture of involuntary attraction and complete scorn. The two men were completely opposed in their entire philosophies. Marrying Martha, conquering her mentally and physically, would be the compensatory means by which Lucas could triumph over Jay, whom he despised and yet knew to be greater than he.
Now Martha was dead. And Alys had grown up to be her bodily replica. So Lucas took her, thereby finally taking Martha and conquering Jay. But Herndon, who loved the other part of Martha that was also Jay, her sensitivity, her character, her—to use the simplest word—her goodness, loathed this monster that resembled Martha so much and yet debased her image so vilely.
Fergus nodded his head and felt something like self-satisfaction. The snarls were coming undone. But so much yet remained snarled, and all of it seemed to focus around one man:
What had Lucas meant by “The solution lies in Elion
Why was the callous Lucas so solicitous for James Herndon?
What was in Jay Stanhope’s last letter, and why did Martha take James Herndon on that long walk from which he returned perturbed and angry?
What had James Herndon meant by his cryptic promise to reveal “false knowledges”?
It all pointed in one direction, and so many other little details fitted in there too. It was all of a piece. Another look at those charts—at least one angle there resolutely refused to fit, as he remembered it, but it might be made to yet—just one clear survey of the body of evidence, and he’d have his case.
But by the time he saw the charts, he reminded himself with surprise, he wouldn’t need them. He’d have his certain proof then, the murderer himself, seized in the very act of polishing off the last witness against him. Somewhere on this island a mind was working fast, determining what improvised weapon to use this time. Somewhere on this island a hand was twitching toward blood. And here beside him …
But it was so still. So blissfully peacefully still. The stars and the ocean and beyond that nothing …
And the problem. He shut his eyes and tried to focus on the porch of the Stanhope home in March of 1915. “We were sitting around, some of us drinking beer …” You rushed the growler in those days, didn’t you? He pictured a large tin bucket of beer and the group around it. The people were harder to picture than the beer. Stella minus twenty-five years was easy. He’d seen revivals recently of her early stuff for Triangle. She was then rather like a cross between the two Gishes, more graceful than Dorothy, but more real than Lillian. Arnold, he thought, would not have changed much; a little more color to his skin, a little more hair on his forehead, a little less poise to his manner. Herndon—that was possible too; you could still see how splendid his body must once have been before it went flabby. Picture him as something like Tom, but with a trifle less vigor even then. Catherine—a straight and vapid ingenue, probably very pretty. Horace—the cocky little guy who is always going to do something pretty damned smart next week. Lucas—but Lucas defeated him. It was impossible to imagine a young Lucas Quincy. You don’t have straight juveniles in New Masses cartoons.
And Martha … Fergus was an impersonal devotee of time-travel. He reveled in such problems as What happens if you go back in time and kill your own grandfather? But an aspect that he felt had never been sufficiently treated was What happens if you go back and marry your own grandmother? Love across the centuries—the Berkeley Square sort of thing—had always fascinated him. In moments of drunken introspection he had been known to decide that his true love had died long ago and that their paths would never intersect in this space-time continuum. He had been in love, at various times, with Nefretiti, Mary Stuart, Catherine of Braganza, Mary Fitton, Ethel Le Neve, and Thérèse de Lisieux, though he doubted if even time-travel would have done him any good in the last case. And now he found this odd and familiar feeling focusing on Martha Stanhope.
They sounded grand, the Stanhopes. They must have been, to impress so intensely such a diverse group of people. And of the two, he preferred Martha. Jay would be a little too exalted, a little too heroically aflame for his tastes. But Martha … Even her name fitted—Martha, that dear good kind person who washed up the dishes while her more famous sister entertained the visiting celebrity. Martha was all right. And how to picture such a person knowing only that she looked startlingly like that bitch Alys?
He concentrated. And slowly the picture grew clear. The common pettiness of Alys’ little features grew slowly into a lovely delicacy. The flagrant smudges of bad makeup faded to a natural vividness. The blue eyes lost their hungry glitter and became serene. He saw Martha.
He saw the whole 1915 group now, in their natural being, with the one curious inconsistency that they were dressed as of 1940. The costumes of 1915 are too fresh to be glamorous. They are merely funny, and you cannot visualize them in a serious context. They belong in a revival of early Sennett and nowhere else.
James Herndon savored his beer. “We owe the Germans this at least,” he sighed. “This and Heine.”
“That is the least of our debts,” young Dr. Hugh Arnold announced pedantically. “Think of their immeasurable contributions to medical research.”
“Oh but they’re nasty!” Catherine Brainard squealed. “Look at what they did in poor little Belgium, crucifying all those little children and killing all those nuns and cutting off their … and mutilating them,” she ended refinedly.
“There’s still too much of the beast in man,” Hugh admitted, “One of the ultimate objects of all medical achievement must be to eradicate it.”
“And we see that beast,” said Martha, “so much more clearly in our enemies.”
Young Lucas, that amorphous shape, snorted. “Every man’s your enemy. Only sensible rule of life. Eh, Horace?”
And Horace nodded sagaciously.
Then the postman came, a blue-gray uniform without a face, and handed a letter to Martha, liberally bespeckled with foreign stamps and censor’s seals.
“From Jay!” Catherine gurgled kittenishly, and James leaned forward.
Martha read through the letter in silence. Her grave eyes showed no expression until she had finished. Then with an odd frown of concern she looked around the group. She raised her hands and dropped them with a meaningless gesture.
“Lucas …” she began.
“What is it? More highfalutin nonsense?”
“No. No, I couldn’t.” Her lips set in a firm line. “James, I want to talk to you.”
James rose and offered her his arm. “A turn around the park, fair damsel?”
“Yes. Yes, that’s an idea. We’ll go for a walk. You don’t mind?”
The others said they didn’t. Fergus’ eye tried to follow the strolling couple, but it met only darkness. Reluctantly he returned it to the porch.
The slim and pretty Stella Paris started up. “Somebody’s watching us!” she cri
ed.
“Think nothing of it, my dear,” said Hugh. “Merely time-travel. You know, like that odd little novel by Wells.”
Horace looked hungrily at Lucas’ throat, and the gash there. “Not so deep as a Wells,” he observed, “but it will serve.”
A little girl of seven with bouncing breasts came up to the porch. “Look at my kitten,” she called out gleefully. “I’ve just sliced his throat. Isn’t it fun?”
The beer container growled its approval.
Tom Quincy stared through the starlit gloom at the young detective and smiled sympathetically. Fergus had been through a hell of a nervous strain this whole night; the reaction was inevitable. And why not let him sleep? If the need arose, he could be waked. Meanwhile let him rest. His alert brain was an invaluable asset on that island, and all the more useful if properly rested.
Tom reached over and picked up the bone-handled revolver. Just in case. He thought for a moment of the house and Ramirez and then remembered that Dr. Arnold was watching in that room. He himself could do more good here. And that Corcoran should safely survive the night and speak his knowledge tomorrow was of immeasurable importance.
Despite Fergus’ cogent reasoning, Tom was far from persuaded that the goat-trap would work. It was possible, maybe it was even plausible, that the man who had attacked Corcoran would return to finish his work. But wouldn’t even he have some sense? Wouldn’t he smell a trap? Murderers can be highly canny individuals.
Just the same Tom kept a tight grip on the revolver. “And I’ll keep my ears pricked,” he said to himself, and had an absurd vision of himself as a pirate chieftain with vast gold earrings thrust through those pricked ears. He held the revolver and listened intently; for at the moment nothing on earth, not even Janet, seemed so important as that Corcoran should come safely through the night and tell his story tomorrow to Fergus’ friend the police lieutenant.
Detective Lieutenant A. Jackson lay on a cot in the Las Vegas police station and wished to God that he could just put that left shoulder away in storage someplace until it felt human again.
The Case of the Seven Sneezes Page 19
