Marilyn K - The House Next Door

by Lionel White

  By this time Len was almost completely sober.

  He started to turn towards the bed. It suddenly had occurred to him that something was very, very wrong. Allie might change furniture around and she might, just possibly redecorate a room. But Allie, not even by the wildest stretch of the imagination, could ever have selected a purple wallpaper, decorated with mauve roses!

  It was then that Len Neilsen saw the body on the bed.

  Later on, when he would think about it, Len would silently congratulate himself for the rare presence of mind he showed during that next five minutes. It hadn’t been easy.

  The body was that of a bald-headed man; a man carelessly dressed in a leather jacket, a blue shirt and brown shoes with built-up heels. But it wasn’t the man's clothes which attracted Len’s horrified attention. It was the fact

  that the man had a small round hole in the exact center of his forehead and that from this hole, a small channel of blood had dripped out, making a narrow little river down the man's parchment face before forming a small pool on the white pillow case. The man’s eyes were wide open and he was staring intently at the ceiling. But Len didn’t need to have a medical degree to know that the man was not actually seeing the ceiling. He knew, instinctively and at once, that the man was very dead.

  It was funny how his mind worked. The very first concrete thought he had was, my God, if I were a woman, I’d scream.

  He felt an almost irresistible inclination to scream anyway, in spite of his sex.

  Instinctively Len took a step or two toward the bed. At this precise moment the realization of what must have happened came to him.

  He was not in his own bedroom; in fact, he was not even in his own house at all.

  When the firm of Cohen and Mathews planned the development which they were to call Fairlawn Acres, they did an extremely competent and workmanlike job. They had started out finding what to them seemed an ideal location and a certain amount of credit must be given them for rare visionary powers.

  Certainly the average layman looking at the bleak and treeless potato field, some forty miles out of Manhattan, would not have seen its possibilities. Oddly enough, Cohen was the visionary and designer and Mathews was the money man.

  They had converted this two- hundred- acre field, purchased at a price of five hundred and ten dollars an acre, into some six hundred and fifty small plots. They also allowed for a shopping center, a school—the land for which they sold to the town for eight thousand dollars an acre—a couple of playgrounds and several other civic centers which helped to make their homes attractive buys.

  The homes themselves were a good value for the slightly less than fifteen thousand dollars sales price. They were fairly roomy, not too badly constructed. There was only one thing wrong with them, from an aesthetic point of view.

  Cohen had set up two master designs, one of which he called “colonial” and theother “ranch.” Every house in the development fitted into the pattern of one or the other of these designs. And, as each house was located on an identically landscaped plot, coming with two dozen assorted shrubs, a few evergreen trees and a driveway, each house was identical to its neighbor. The total effect was one of deadly monotony.

  Len Neilsen realized, that drunk as he had been, he had very obviously been delivered to the wrong house. Unfortunately, he had no sooner realized this than he heard the sound of a door slamming. Living as he did in a house with an identical layout, Len had no difficulty in identifying the source of the sound. Someone was leaving the adjacent bedroom.

  Had he been given perhaps another three or four minutes to think the thing out, it is conceivable that he might have looked for a telephone and called the police. But Len was not permitted this essential period of grace.

  He was in a strange house, in a strange bedroom, with a man who was very dead. The man had either recently committed suicide or been murdered. The fact that Len saw no gun, convinced him that the latter theory was probably the correct one.

  He heard quick, soft steps outside in the hallway.

  There was no time left at all. The killer had heard him or someone was going to enter that room and find him with the body. Either could well prove fatal.

  Len had his shoes in his hand and his coat, overcoat and shirt under his arm as he reached the window. He didn’t hesitate, but hit the ground in his stocking feet. He wasn’t even conscious of the cold slush as he started to run. Nor did he look back as he hurried across the side yard and then ducked behind the garage of the house next door. If he had, he would have seen the dark silhouette of the figure in the bedroom window he had just vacated, staring into the night after him.

  He guessed that it must be somewhere around four o’clock when he reached the street directly behind and running parallel to the street on which stood the house he had just left. He held his wrist up but he was unable to make out the face of his watch. He didn’t bother to light a match. There was, at this moment, but one thought in his mind. He had to find his own house.

  For a second or two he j ust stood still, desperately attempting to orient himself. He saw that he was standing on an icy cement sidewalk, in front of a ranch house which looked exactly like the one he had only a moment before vacated, and also exactly like the one in which he himself lived.

  He felt no sense of cold, in spite of the fact he was naked from the waist up. He was too shocked; too frightened. Even the hang-over had, momentarily, faded from his immediate consciousness.

  He was leaning down to try and get his shoes on when he heard the sound of the car. It came from the direction of the place he had just left. For a second he just stood there, frozen into immobility. And then he knew he would have to do something immediately. He realized the possible significance of that car’s sudden muffled roar. Someone was looking for him. Someone must have seen him make his escape.

  It could mean any one of several things—all of them bad. He had very likely witnessed a murder, or at least, the physical results of a murder. It was very possible that the murderer was aware of his presence in the house. At best should anyone have seen him leaving by the window, he would be wanted for breaking and entering. But no matter who it was, or what had happened, he would have considerable difficulty in explaining his presence.

  The best he could expect would be some bad publicity. The sort of publicity which would do him no good down at the office.

  As he stood there, attempting to gather his wits, he suddenly became aware of the twin headlights sweeping around the corner at the far end of the block.

  With no more hesitation, Len turned and started running.

  Within seconds he could hear the sound of the rapidly approaching car. He knew that in no time at all it would be even with him.

  Turning quickly, he darted into the nearest driveway. As he did, his shoeless right foot struck a large stone and he stumbled. The pain was overpowering. But it wasn’t enough to stop him.

  Once more he passed alongside of a house similar to his own and started through the back yard. This time, coming to the end of the yard, he found himself facing a four-foot, woven wood fence. As he hesitated, he suddenly drew a sharp breath of relief. He almost cried out as his hand found the top of the fence and he prepared to vault it.

  He knew, at last, just where he was.

  Len Neilsen himself had put this fence up at the rear of his property just a month ago, to divide his own small back yard from that of the property which adjoined it in the rear. There could be no mistake. Even in the semidarkness, he recognized it.

  A second later and he had climbed the fence and dropped to the ground on the far side. Yes, it looked like his house all right. But he took no chances. Carefully he crept to the small one-car garage. He found the side door and opened it. A moment later, as he shaded the tiny flame from his cigarette lighter, he was able to identify his own two-year-old Ford sedan.

  By this time he was shaking so badly that he had difficulty in holding the lighter. He let the flame go out then and went back to
the garage door, opening it a crack and listening. There was no sound on the still night air.

  A moment later, he had found his door key and he began to circle the side of his house. The front door opened at once.

  Len was in the bathroom, five minutes later, rubbing his face with lukewarm water, when he once more thought he heard the engine of a car. It seemed to come from the street in front of the house, but he couldn’t be sure. Somehow, he felt a sense of relief, however, as he reflected that he had snapped the patented burglar catch on after slamming the front door.

  He was reaching for a towel as the bathroom door softly opened.

  “Len—Len, for God’s sake what’s happened!”

  He swung around swiftly to face Allie, where she stood in the opened doorway. She looked, oddly enough, half asleep but thoroughly frightened.

  He put his finger to his lips, reached for her and pulled her into the room. She was staring at him as though he had lost his senses as he closed the door behind her.

  "Sitdown,” he said, “sit down and don’t say a word. Something terrible has happened.”

  Her brown-flecked eyes wide now, Allie leaned against the glass door of the shower.

  “Len,” she said, “oh, darling! You're bleeding!”

  "I think I broke my goddamned toe,” Len said. And then began to laugh. He began to laugh and he tried to stop, but he couldn’t to save his life. Couldn’t stop until he was doubled over and the tears were coming out of his eyes. Couldn’t stop until Allie had taken the glass of ice-cold water from the faucet and thrown it into his convulsed face.

  Allie had realized that in spite of the smell of stale liquor which permeated the room, Len wasn’t drunk. She had recognized the hysteria.

  It wasn’t until a half hour later, as they sat on opposite sides of the table in the dinette, with the Venetian blinds closed and the drapes carefully pulled shut—sat there having black coffee—that she understood the reason behind that sudden hysteria.

  Allie had pulled on one of Len’s bathrobes, the big terrycloth one which went almost twice around her slender figure, and her feet were warm in a pair of fluffy bedroom slippers. She managed to comb back the ash-blond hair from her eyes. She was talking as Len poured the last of the second cup of scorching hot coffee down his throat.

  “But Len,” Allie said, “I think you should. I think you should call the police and tell them everything. ”

  For a moment he looked over at her and stared, a helpless lost sort of expression on his face. His head was splitting and he knew that he had a first-class hang-over. But his mind was clear and he was thinking very carefully.

  “Len,” Allie suddenly said, almost as though she were interrupting herself. “Len, where are your glasses? You haven’t got your glasses.”

  Vaguely he shook his head, feeling instinctively with his right hand toward his face.

  “No wonder everything seems a little fuzzy,” he said.

  “When did you have them last?”

  He tried to remember, but he couldn’t.

  “I don't know,” he said at last. “I honestly don’t know. I don’t think I had them while I was in that house. I couldn’t have had them. That’s why, probably, I was a little confused, why I didn’t realize at first I was in the wrong

  place.”

  "Do you think you could have left them there?”

  "I don’t know.”

  For a moment she stared at him, sudden alarm on her face.

  "What else have you lost, Len?” she asked at last.

  Once more he shook his head, trying to remember. And quickly he looked up at her.

  “My hat. I think I must have left my hat. I didn’t have it when I got home. ”

  Allie stood up.

  “Len, call the police.”

  He started to get to his feet, but halfway up, changed his mind and sank back into the chair.

  “No,” he said. “No, Allie, I can’t. Don’t you see—I just can’t. Good God, what can I tell them? How can I explain? Don’t you understand, honey? I don’t even know what house it was. It must have been on this block, butthat’s as near as I can come to it. I don’t know what house, I’m not even sure of the street. And anyway, how in the name of God could I explain being there?”

  For a second she looked at him closely.

  “You’re sure, honey?” she asked at last. “You're sure about the dead man? And the blood and all? Maybe... don’t forget, Len, you say you were pretty tight still. Maybe it was just...”

  “Listen Allie,” Len said, “Of course I’m sure. I was tight all right. But not that tight. And anyway, if you have any doubt about it, look at my feet. Look at my clothes. I couldn’t have dreamed them up. No, I'msure.”

  “Then the only thing to do...”

  Len put up his hand to stop her.

  “Listen, baby,” he said. “I don’t think you quite understand. There was a dead man there, a man that I have every reason to believe was murdered. Someone murdered him. And someone saw me there in that house. I feel sure of it. Maybe they didn’t recognize me, but they saw me.

  “Don’t you see what that means? Don’t you understand about the car? Now if there was a man, and he was murdered, and someone did see me, then the chances are the body has been moved by this time. The body has been moved and the traces of the crime, if there was a crime, have also been removed.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Alliesaid. “So youjust tell the police that...”

  “Allie,” Len said, “Listen to me. I tell the police what? That I saw a dead man in a house that I had no right being in? That I don’t even know what house it was? The police will think I’m crazy. They’ll understand that I ve been drinking and they'll think I ’ m nuts. They wouldn’t even look. And even if they do look, what will they find?”

  ‘‘It doesn’t matter. You should still report it.”

  Len reached over for his wife’s hand.

  “There’s something you’re forgetting, darling,” he said. “I don’t want to frighten you, but there’s something you are forgetting. Suppose I do tell the police and suppose they do believe me and start looking. And then they don’t find anything. Then what? What about it if someone did kill someone else and they find out that I have gone to the police?”

  For a moment he stopped and stared at her intently.

  “Don’t you see? The police won’t believe me, but someone else will. A murderer will believe me. A man who has already committed one killing will understand that I know about it."

  He was watching her closely as he spoke and he saw the blood suddenly leave her face. Her eyes were wide now as she gave a little gasp and her hand clinched and tightened on his.

  “Don’t be frightened,” he said quickly. “Don’t be frightened, Allie. But you have to understand. I must have time to think about it. I must have time to decide.”

  “Oh, Len,’’shesaid, "Oh Len, what are we going to do? What can we do?”

  He hesitated a moment, trying to find something to say to reassure her. He hated himself for having frightened and alarmed her and he wanted to erase it. He forced a thin smile.

  “Right now,” he said, “we’re going to bed and get some sleep. That’s the best thing to do. Then, in the morning, we can...”

  Suddenly she leaned across the table and her lips found his. Her hand went up and through his hair.

  “Darling—darling,” she said.

  He started to get up again from the chair, but she pushed him back.

  “You’re right, honey,” shesaid. “We’re going to bed and get some rest. But first I’m going to get some Mercurochrome and fix up the cuts on your hand. Your hand and your cheek are both scratched up.”

  He nodded, looking down at his hand where it rested on the table.

  “Must have done it when I was plowing through those damned bushes,” he said. “It’s nothing.”

  “And you’re going to see a doctor about that foot in the morning,” Allie said. “It’s all swollen and y
ou might have broken a bone.”

  Twenty minutes later, after they had looked in on young Bill, Allie and Len lay side by side in the big double bed. Allie was amazed how quickly Len fell asleep. She herself twisted and turned for almost an hour. She was trying to remember everything about the evening, trying to remember the sounds she had heard of people coming and going from the adjacent houses.

  The trouble was, with the party across the street, over at the Swansons’, and the usual traffic, heavy on a Friday night in the development, she couldn’t remember anything which might have been particularly unusual or out of the way.

  But she was convinced of one thing—Len had been telling her the truth and he had been in a house nearby. A house exactly like the house in which they themselves lived—except that it was a house which contained the body of a dead man.

  The last thing Allie thought of before finally falling asleep was that no matter what, she would convince Len in the morning that the only thing to do was see the police. That’s what the police were for—to handle things like dead men with bullet holes in the center of their foreheads.

  Chapter Five

  In her sixty-sixth year, Martha Kitteridge had, at long last, found peace and contentment. It is, in a sense, rather odd that of the more than six hundred families who had settled in Fairlawn, Martha and her husband, Reginald Parson Kitteridge, were happiest about their new home. We can dismiss Reginald’s feelings and opinions with the one brief statement that he was a man who was bound to reflect whatever opinions his wife might hold. Reginald Kitteridge, during the forty years of his marriage, had been totally consistent in a major domestic attitude; whatever made Martha happy made him happy. Should Martha have decided she preferred to live in a lower East Side tenement, Reginald would have been satisfied.

  But Martha had found the little development house out at Fairlawn and had fallen in love with it at once. The thing which made it so unusual was the fact that Martha Kitteridge—and her husband, of course—had lived in a score of widely different homes, in a dozen different countries. Kitteridge, a British citizen attached to the diplomatic services of his country, had never attained a particularly significant stature as a statesman. Now, in the twilight of his life, he was vice-consul for his government in New York. This, his last and probably final assignment, had followed long years of service in the Orient (where the Kitteridges had lived like minor royalty with many servants and no end of prestige); several years in Copenhagen (where there had been fewer servants and a much simpler economic plan of living, but where each had found a great deal of intellectual stimulus); a short tour of duty in the Near East, about which the less said the better.