The Iron Gates

by Margaret Millar

  Bascombe stopped, looked him up and down. “Yeah, I know.”

  “We were all thrilled to hear you got a commission. I bet you’ll look swell in your uniform.”

  “Ask me to take it off for you some time and see where it gets you.”

  D’arcy looked pained. “That’s no way to talk. I thought you’d be nice to me at least on your last day.”

  Smiling grimly, Bascombe strode into Sands’ office.

  Sands looked up and said, “Good morning. How’s the Military Intelligence this morning?”

  Bascombe saluted smartly. “I beg to report, sir, that A-56 of the Division of Lawns and Gardens, that is, myself, has discovered the existence of a pansy in your own office. A-56 recommends fertilization of the roots or complete extermination.”

  Sands laughed. “Sit down. When do you leave?”

  “It’s a military secret, even from me.”

  “Ellen back?”

  “Yeah. She’s pulling the gag about how-can-I-live-without-you-my-hero. I’ve signed the papers for her allotment, now I’m forgetting the whole thing.” He sat on the edge of the desk, swinging one foot. “I hope.”

  “Got the jitters?”

  “Some. Afraid I’ll pull a boner. What I’ve been doing around here seems like kid stuff compared to what’s in store for me.”

  “I don’t think you have to be afraid. D’arcy says you have a truly great brain.”

  “What the hell!” Bascombe swung himself off the desk, embarrassed. “Well, good-bye.” He held out his hand. “It’s been damn nice having a decent guy in this dump.”

  Sands, too, was embarrassed. He got up, and they shook hands across the desk. “Good-bye and good hunting.”

  “Thanks.”

  Bascombe went out. In the outer office he saw D’arcy talking to a middle-aged woman. He noticed the woman especially because she was carrying an enormous leather handbag.

  Well—what the hell—women, to hell with them . . .

  “There now,” D’arcy said to the woman. “Now you can go in.”

  She seemed distraught. “Thank you. I—it’s really urgent.”

  “Just step in.” D’arcy opened the door of Sands’ office with a flourish. “Miss Green to see you, sir.”

  “Good morning, Miss Green,” Sands said, and was surprised to see how agitated she looked. “What brings you here?”

  “I can’t make head nor tail of it. Look.” She opened the big handbag and drew out a paper bag.

  “Shut that door, D’arcy.”

  “Oh, yes, sir.”

  Janet Green put the paper bag on the desk. It had been stamped and postmarked, and Janet Green’s name and address had been written shakily in pen and ink.

  “I just don’t know what to make of it,” she said. “This came this morning, a while ago. It’s a diary, and why anyone should send me a diary . . .”

  Sands took the book carefully from the bag. The cover was tooled leather and across it, in gold letters, was printed “Mildred Scott Morrow.” He opened it. The ink was faded but still legible. “July 3, 1928. Today is my birthday and Edith has given me this lovely diary. I told her, what would I put in a diary, I never have anything interesting to say . . .”

  “Why to me?” Janet cried in exasperation. “I thought, of course, as soon as I saw the name Morrow that Edith Morrow herself must have sent it. I don’t know any of the others at all. And yet I only met her yesterday.”

  “Perhaps that’s why.”

  “What is?”

  “She could trust you because you have no ax to grind.”

  “Yes, but there’s nothing in the book that I can see! And why not keep it herself? The strange thing is that someone has marked passages in it here and there. They’re mostly about Lucille.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, as soon as I looked into the book I rang up Edith Morrow. At least I rang the house and whoever answered the phone sounded very peculiar. They said that Miss Morrow couldn’t come to the phone. Then they hung up, just like that.”

  Before she had finished speaking Sands had risen. “Thanks for coming. I’ll keep this. I’m in a hurry.”

  “You can’t leave me . . .”

  “Sorry. D’arcy will see you out. I’ve got to leave.”

  He went to the coat rack and slipped the diary into the pocket of his overcoat. Then with the coat over his arm he walked out.

  When he reached the Morrow house the doorbell was answered by Annie.

  She recognized him and said, “Oh!” and put her hand over her mouth.

  “I’d like to speak to Miss Edith Morrow,” he said.

  “Well, you can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “She’s dead. And it’s none of your business this time. It happened natural. She died in her sleep.”

  She opened the door a little wider, not wide enough for him to walk in comfortably, but just enough so that he could squeeze through the opening if he really had the nerve to come calling on people at a time like this. . . .

  “I’m very sorry,” he said, and Annie was impressed by his sincerity. Her face lost its guarded look.

  “I’ve been real miserable about it,” she said. “I wasn’t very nice to her yesterday and now I’ll never have a chance to make it up to her. That’s the first thing I thought of when I found her this morning. There she was lying on the bed, all stiff and peaceful, and I thought, now it’s too late, now I’ll never have a chance to make it up to her.”

  “Where is the family?”

  “They’re up there with her.”

  “I don’t want to intrude on them.” Too late now. Edith was stiff and peaceful, at home with her family. “I’ll wait some place. Don’t bother telling them I’m here. I’ll just wait.”

  “They wouldn’t like it if I didn’t tell them. They don’t like having a policeman around. There’s a fire in Dr. Morrow’s den, you can go in there, I guess, but I don’t really think they’ll like it.”

  “I’ll take a chance.”

  She left him then, and when he heard her go upstairs he took the diary from his coat pocket and began to read.

  In the first few pages there was nothing marked, no reference to Lucille. Mildred Morrow had been chiefly concerned with her family and the details of the home. He read at random:

  August 4.

  Raining today and Polly is pestering me to let her get her curls cut off. I suppose I’m old-fashioned, I don’t really want her to do it. But if I say no she’ll just go~to Andrew and twist him around her little finger. What a Daddy’s girl she is! I told Andrew, it’s a shame he can’t see more of the children. But then he is doing so much good for the world I feel selfish.

  August 31.

  Edith looks so pretty today! She’s got on a new dress, so I told her; we must do something special. So we had a picnic in the park! Lucille came along.

  I think Lucille could be very beautiful if she would only have some vitality. (Like Edith) She is still far too young to go on grieving for her husband. He was a lot older than she, and what we saw of him, not a nice person like her. The children came on the picnic too but they don’t seem to like Lucille. She is too shy.

  The last sentence was underlined in fresh ink.

  September 6.

  Well, I finally got Lucille and Andrew together! Andrew had a whole evening off, and though we’ve been Lucille’s neighbors for ages, why, Andrew hardly knows her he’s away so much! We played cards (not bridge!) and I told Andrew, here you are with three women, after seeing women all day you must be tired of them. He said no, they whetted his appetite, and we all laughed.

  In the entries for the next two months there were various short references to Lucille.

  We went shopping today. Lucille doesn’t buy much, which puzzles me, because she certainly needs clothes.

  I am getting very fond of Lucille. Once you know her she is really delightful, though Andrew and Edith don’t believe me! Martin is getting to that smart-alecky stage and he calls Lu
cille “the blondy.” Martin is very hard to handle. Though he’s awfully good in his studies I think he’s very sensitive about not being able to join in games and things since he had his back broken. Lucille says he is “compensating,” whatever that means. She is much cleverer than I am.

  Much cleverer, Sands thought. Far too clever for you, Mildred. He felt a strange pity for this woman who had been dead for sixteen years and had come to life again on paper, in all her guilelessness and sweet stupidity.

  November 12.

  I started my Christmas shopping today and tonight Edith went to her club and Andrew is working, of course. So I am sitting in Lucille’s living room writing this while she knits. She knits with her eyes shut, imagine! I asked her what she was thinking and she told me that she was thinking she wasn’t going to celebrate Christmas this year. Not celebrate Christmas! I told her, why not? She was very annoyed for a minute. She told me, look around you, look at my house and my clothes, can’t you figure it out by yourself? Well, of course, I could then. It was very embarrassing and I asked her if she wanted some money, a loan or a gift or anything. But she refused. I think she refused on account of Andrew, she knows he doesn’t much like her.

  December 2.

  Polly found out today (isn’t that just like her! She is a minx!) that Lucille’s car, which we all thought was stored in her garage, has really been sold.

  December 4.

  I took my portrait down to Morison’s for a good cleaning today. Lucille came along and afterward we went to a movie and then to Child’s for a cup of chocolate (which I should not drink). She is so quiet and patient, it’s nice to go places with her. Edith is always in so much of a hurry!

  Quiet and patient, Sands thought. Biding her time, thinking out the plan that was, in the end, to destroy not only Mildred and herself, but three others. How did the plan start? At what particular moment did she begin to covet Mildred’s husband and Mildred’s money?

  December 5.

  Well, here I am over at Lucille’s again tonight. I told her, this is getting to be practically a tradition! But it is nice (and I mean it!) to have someone to drop in on after the children are in bed and when Andrew is on a case and Edith is out. Edith is having quite a rush from this George Mackenzie, but Lucille says she doesn’t think Edith will marry him because she’s too wrapped up in Andrew. I was quite surprised at this! I mean, I know Edith adores Andrew and harries the life out of him, but I always thought it’s because she hasn’t a man of her own.

  I told Lucille this and she just smiled. But I still think I’m right! You don’t know everything, I told her, just in fun, of course!

  Sands had nearly reached the end now, and with each page he turned, the picture of Mildred became clearer. Mildred, smiling and secure, never questioning, never looking behind her to see the inexorable fate that was creeping up on her. Happy Mildred, proud of her husband and his work, secure in the knowledge that her life was to be a series of repetitions, of Andrew and Edith, and the children and new dresses and cups of chocolate; and, like a child herself, never tiring of repetitions.

  December 7.

  Lucille and I took a walk through the park this afternoon. We talked about marriage. I guess it started when I said, something about how attractive Andrew was to women. My goodness, every once in a while one of them makes a big scene at his office and poor Andrew is so completely bewildered by the whole thing. He considers himself an old fogy. At thirty-four! Anyway, I told Lucille this and for some reason she lost her reserve and began to talk about her own marriage. Both her parents died in a hotel fire when she was seventeen, and quite soon afterward she married one of her father’s friends, years older than she was. She said she hated him from the very first day. (And the way she said it! I couldn’t believe it was really my own friend talking!) Imagine living in hate for ten years! No wonder it’s left its mark on her. I do wish she would let me help her in some way. You really should get married again, I told her.

  December 10.

  I bought Lucille’s Christmas present today, a gorgeous rawhide dressing case, and of course now Polly wants one too. Andrew phoned to say he won’t be home until late tonight because Mrs. Peterson’s time is up and she absolutely refuses to go to a hospital. So I guess I’ll drop over to Lucille’s for a while. I want to show her the new earrings Andrew bought me. Later. Well, here I am. Lucille has the living room beautifully decorated for Christmas with clusters of pine tied with ribbon. I was quite envious. I asked her where she got it and she said she’d simply gone out into the park and cut it, and we both laughed. I think I’ll try it too! The pine smells so fresh and clean, and think of the fun cutting it for oneself!

  It was the last entry. The pictures kept forming in Sands’ mind, though there were no more words to hang them on.

  Mildred, pink and pretty against the pine.

  “Oh, I love it! It smells so fresh and clean .”

  “Yes, doesn’t it. I cut it myself.”

  “How exciting!”

  “We could go out and cut some for you. It’s snowing, the night is dark, and I have an ax.”

  “An ax? Oh, goody!”

  “Yes, an ax . . .”

  Had the details of the plan occurred to her suddenly at that point? Or had she plotted ft carefully beforehand, using the pine as the bait for Mildred to swallow, more innocent than any trout? No one would ever know now. Lucille’s secrets had been buried with her in a closed coffin.

  They went, laughing, out into the snow.

  “Oh, this is fun! Wait’ll I tell Andrew.”

  “Here, let me cut it for you. I’m bigger than you are.”

  “Do be careful. It’s rather frightening out here alone, isn’t it?”

  “I’m not frightened.”

  “I just meant, the dark. I can hardly see you, Lucille! Lucille! Where are you? Lucille!”

  “Why I’m right here. Behind you. With an ax.”

  The ax swung and whistled. The snow fell soundlessly and covered Mildred and the tracks.

  What had Lucille done with the ax? Put it in the furnace, Sands thought. The handle would burn, and if the fire was high enough the blade itself might be distorted beyond recognition. And Mildred’s jewels—had she put them in the furnace with the ax, or did she hide them, hoping to sell them later? Perhaps she had never intended to sell them and had taken them only in the hope that Mildred’s death would be construed as a robbery.

  As it was, Sands thought grimly. Thanks to Inspector Hannegan’s precious bungling.

  He returned to Lucille. He could see her destroying the ax, and hiding the jewels and then coming, suddenly, upon the diary Mildred had left behind in the sitting room. If she hadn’t been pressed for time she might have read the diary then and there and realized that it would have to be destroyed. But she didn’t have time to read it and she was cautious enough not to want to destroy it if it should prove harmless to her.

  Where has it been all these years? Sands thought.

  At one o’clock Andrew Morrow had come home. “Edith! Edith, wake up! Mildred isn’t home yet. Something must have happened to her.”

  “Why, she was just over at Lucille’s.”

  “I’m going over to get her.”

  They had gone over to Lucille’s hut they didn’t get Mildred.

  “She left here ages ago, before eleven o’clock. I thought she was going straight home.”

  “She’s not there.”

  “She may have decided to go for a walk, and stumbled and fell.”

  “Come on, Edith, we’ll look for her.”

  “Wait and I’ll get dressed and help you look.”

  She had helped them look, guiding them firmly away from the tree that sheltered Mildred.

  Hers had remained the guiding hand. She soothed Edith and nursed Andrew through his illness and got the children off to school; and when she had become indispensable, he married her.

  Sands closed the diary and put it in his pocket. He thought of Edith creeping downstairs
with the diary, finding only a paper bag to wrap it in, and sending it not to him, Sands, but to her new friend, Janet Green.

  To send it to me would have been too final and definite an act, he thought. She wasn’t sure, she wanted only to get the diary in some safe place outside the house until she could decide what to do about it.

  He felt a sudden terrible pity for Edith, not because she was dead but because in her childish impulsiveness and indecision she had sent the diary to Janet Green.

  Polly came in and found Sands slumped in the chair, holding his head with one hand.

  He rose when he saw her, but for a minute neither of them spoke. He noticed that she had not been crying but her face had the strained set look that told of deep and bitter tears inside.

  “I was—we were just going to phone you. My father will be down in a minute. He thinks—he thinks Edith killed herself.”

  “Why?” Sands said, and had to repeat it. “Why?”

  “It wasn’t natural.” She turned her face and gazed stonily out of the window. “My father thinks it was morphine.”

  “Why morphine?”

  “I don’t know. He just thinks so. She was in his room last night, half-hysterical, begging him to give her something to make her sleep. He unlocked his cupboard and then went into the bathroom to mix her a bromide. It must have been then when it happened.”

  “What did?”

  “When she—took the morphine.”

  “Why?”

  She turned and looked at him. “You keep asking why and I don’t know.”

  “Can you take advice?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Get out of this house right away. Walk out the door and don’t look back.”

  “Are you—crazy?”

  “Go to your lieutenant. Don’t stop to pack or think. Pick up your coat and get out.”

  “I—can’t.”

  “Don’t argue.”

  Her eyes widened. “I don’t understand you. You’re frightening me. I can’t leave my father. And there’s no reason—no reason . . .”