Yellow Room

by Mary Roberts Rinehart

  “That remains to be seen,” Floyd said loftily. “Any empty rooms around here?”

  “Eleven. Patient went out late yesterday afternoon.”

  The chief grunted and looked around. Eleven was across the hall. He strode in there and looked around him. The bed had been stripped and not yet made up, and a window was open. The intern had followed.

  “Who was in here?”

  “The Crowells’ little girl. She had her tonsils out a couple of day ago.”

  Floyd examined the window. The fire escape was just outside, and he grunted again. There were scratches on the rusty edge of the ladderlike steps, and some of the paint had been scraped off.

  “Come in here,” he said, almost cheerfully. “Bring the doc over, will you?”

  But the doctor was not convinced. Someone might have come in. He didn’t dispute that. Lucy however had not been killed. “She might have been frightened,” he said. “Nobody laid a hand on her, Floyd. Take it or leave it.”

  “What about these Crowells? Know anything?”

  “They’re all right, so far as I know. I operated on the girl. I don’t know much about them. Get her down to the mortuary, Floyd. I’d better do a post-mortem.”

  It was the doctor who notified Joe Norton, Lucy’s husband, and after a brief hesitation called Carol Spencer. She did not understand at first.

  “Dead?” she said. “Lucy! But she was all right yesterday. She was getting better.”

  “She died suddenly.”

  “You mean her heart?”

  “I think so. She tried to get out of bed alone.”

  “But she’d never do that,” Carol protested. “I can’t believe it.”

  She put down the receiver and wondered what to do. It was still early. The servants had had their breakfast, but Elinor and Greg were not yet awake. She decided to drive to the hospital, and found Joe Norton already there when she arrived. He was sitting on a bench in the lower hall, his face in his hands and his whole attitude one of hopeless grief. She sat down beside him and put a hand on his knee.

  “I’m sorry, Joe. Terribly sorry.”

  He raised his head and looked at her with red-rimmed eyes.

  “They say it was her heart,” he said bitterly. “Wasn’t anything wrong with her heart. That’s their way of getting out of it.”

  “Getting out of what?”

  “They killed her. That’s what. Somebody gave her the wrong medicine. Or maybe she knew something she wasn’t meant to tell.”

  She had not seen Lucy, and she supposed they were making a post-mortem examination. She herself still felt stunned, and to add to the tension Joe suddenly decided to locate Lucy and was restrained only with difficulty. She quieted him finally. She even succeeded at last in taking him back to Crestview, where he sat in the kitchen, not talking, while a horrified Maggie fried him some eggs and forced him to eat. When Carol went back, however, he had gone.

  So great had been her own surprise that it was not until she was in her own room after his departure that she began to wonder why Lucy had been found on the floor, or if heart trouble was really the answer. There had been something in the doctor’s voice which puzzled her.

  The doctor, to tell the truth, also was puzzled. There was no question that Lucy had died because her heart had stopped, abruptly and finally. But it should not have stopped at all. It was a fairly sound and healthy organ, as was all the rest of what had been Lucy Norton. Shock, he thought, as he put down his scalpel. Shock and fright? He wondered. He reported to Floyd, who was content to take his post-mortem in absentia.

  “Nothing,” he said. “Slight bruise on elbow as she fell. Nothing else, inside or out.”

  “Maybe she climbed that fire escape?” Floyd jeered. “Look again, doc. Maybe poison.”

  “The laboratory’s doing that now. I think it unlikely.”

  It was more than unlikely. It was impossible. The lab reported that Lucy had eaten a light hospital supper of creamed chicken and gelatine at five-thirty, and that she had died sometime after midnight, the process of digestion being far along.

  Carol knew nothing of all this. She was grieved for Lucy, and slightly annoyed when at eleven o’clock she looked across the patio to see Elinor getting into a taxi on her way to the club. Freda had certainly told her about Lucy, but she was going anyhow, to sit poised and smiling and slightly defiant under one of the big umbrellas by the pool, to gather around her such men as were available, and to drink her before-lunch cocktail as though she had never heard of the death.

  It was not normal behavior, even for Elinor. Carol found herself recalling Marcia’s story about the car, and the fire which had happened so opportunely. For the first time she began to suspect that her sister was involved, not in Lucy’s death but in what had preceded it.

  She had to know. It was no use drifting along, with murder and sudden death all around them; with Elinor at the club and Greg still asleep. She had to find out.

  Elinor’s room was already cleaned when she got there. Freda had gone, and the bottles and jars of cosmetics were in neat rows on the toilet table. The elaborate comb and brushes and mirror without which Elinor never traveled were in place, as well as her jewel case on a small stand beside her bed. Carol only glanced at them, however. She closed the door to the hall and went to the closet

  Considering that she had come merely for the inquest, Elinor had brought a surprising amount of clothes. There were floor-length dinner dresses, high-necked in deference to the war. There were elaborate negligees and sports dresses. On the shelf above, carefully placed on trees, was a row of hats, one of them small and white, and her shoes and slippers were neatly treed on the slanting shelf near the floor.

  She examined them all, feeling guilty as she did so. Once Freda alarmed her. She came into the room, saw the closet door ajar and closed it without seeing her. Not until she had been gone for some time did Carol resume her search, moving the dresses along the rod that supported the hangers and inspecting them one by one. She paid particular attention to the dinner gown Elinor had worn to the Wards’ the night of the fire, but it told her nothing. She had almost finished when she saw the warm woolen dressing gown hung on a hook behind the rest.

  She had not seen it before. It was a practical tailored affair, dark blue, with neat pockets and a cord to fasten around Elinor’s slim waist, and she took it down and examined it, her heart pounding in her ears.

  It was not only dusty around the hem. There were two or three sandburs caught in it. She stood still, holding it, and trying not to see the picture it painted: Elinor in the attic, getting Granny’s old pitcher, Elinor on the drive, siphoning gasoline from the car, and Elinor setting fire to the hillside and then coming back to the house and hanging up the garment, as casually as she did everything else.

  When she heard Greg’s voice speaking to Freda, she hurriedly replaced the dressing gown where she had found it. But Greg did not come in. She was relieved, although she knew it was only a respite. She had to go on. She found nothing more, however. Among the shoes were bedroom slippers to match the negligees and one practical pair of soft tan leather. Except that these last showed a scratch or two, there was no indication that they had been outside the house.

  Greg was on the terrace when she went downstairs. He was staring out at the bay, smoking and depressed.

  “I’m sorry about last night, Carol,” he said. “Made a fool of myself, of course. What’s this about Lucy Norton?”

  She lit a cigarette before she could trust herself to speak.

  “She’s dead, Greg. That’s all I know.”

  “Queer,” he said moodily. “Always thought she was a sturdy little thing. Heart, Maggie says. It will be hard on Joe.” He put out his cigarette. “I just talked to Virginia on the phone. She’s pretty badly upset. Everything’s ready, church engaged, bridesmaids ready, presents coming in, and here I sit. I didn’t set that fire.”

  She summoned all her courage.

  “Are you sure you don’t kn
ow why it was set, Greg?”

  He stared at her incredulously.

  “Why it was set? Good God, Carol, I don’t understand you. Why should I know a thing like that?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said wearily. “I only know it was started from this house. There’s no other explanation. And at some time or other Elinor has been outside in the grounds at night. I found some sandburs in the hem of her dressing gown. She knew about that pitcher too, and my car was there. She could have got the gasoline from it.”

  To her surprise he laughed, although rather grimly.

  “I can suspect Elinor of a number of things,” he said dryly. “I know her. But the last thing in the world she would do would be to soil her pretty hands with gasoline, or go out in the night alone in a dressing gown and carrying Granny’s old pitcher to start a fire. That’s out, Carol. Don’t be a little fool.”

  Perhaps he was right, she thought. It wasn’t like Elinor, none of it, and when Elinor herself arrived soon after, bringing a half dozen people for a drink before lunch she felt still more doubtful. This was Elinor at her best, the perfect hostess, the fastidious, immaculate person she had always been.

  They sat around, well dressed and prosperous appearing. Some of them had been on the links. The talk was idle, of golf, of the party the night before, of the war, of politics. It was some time before Lucy was mentioned. Then someone said that Floyd was still clinging to the idea she had been murdered, that he had found where the fire escape had been used.

  Louise Simpson looked up at Greg with her faintly malicious smile.

  “And Greg with no alibi for last night!” she said. “Where did you vanish to, Greg?”

  “Me?” He grinned at her. “I wasn’t climbing any fire escapes. I had a lot to drink. I drove it off.”

  She persisted, still apparently only mischievous. “There’s a story you were here the night of the murder, you know. You’d better get busy on a couple of alibis.”

  Greg looked astonished. He put down his glass and glanced around the group.

  “I don’t get it. What story? I haven’t heard it.”

  “Just that you were seen here, coming out of the drive in Elinor’s car,” Louise said pertly.

  “In Elinor’s car? For God’s sake, what would I be doing here in Elinor’s car?”

  She laughed. “That’s the question, of course,” she said, and finished her cocktail.

  It was Peter Crowell who broke the startled silence that followed.

  “Why don’t you mind your own business, Louise?” he demanded. “Of course there are stories, Greg. There always are. That’s only one of them. Don’t let it worry you. Nobody believes it.” He got out of his chair. “It’s time to go,” he said. “More than time, if you ask me.”

  15

  THE NEWS OF LUCY’S death did not reach Dane until Alex returned from his marketing that morning. There was still no word from Tim in St. Louis, and Dane was restless. He had walked again over to the hillside. Most of the watchers had left and the last vestige of fire had gone, but he knew the uselessness of further search. When he went back he had determined to see Lucy Norton, police or no police. There was still the question as to why she had allowed the dead girl to stay in the house, had fixed her bed, even carried soap and towels to her. What sort of story had she put up that Lucy would agree to let her stay there? He felt the whole answer lay there.

  He considered that, ruffling through such notes as he had made. He had always believed in following the essential clue, and so far he had considered the dead girl’s identity as probably providing that. Now he wondered if her story to Lucy was not more important. These New England women, he knew, were not soft. They were as hard and firm as the soil that bred them. They had character and a certain skepticism, especially about strangers. Yet Lucy had accepted her. Why? What proof had she had? What, for instance, had she shown? A card? A letter?

  Some identification she had certainly produced. Something she had carried with her in her bag, something now either buried or in the murderer’s possession.

  The news of Lucy’s death was therefore a shock to him.

  “Found her on the floor, sir,” Alex reported. “Floyd’s running around in circles. According to all I can find out, he thinks somebody climbed up the fire escape and knocked her down.”

  Dane ate a hasty lunch and drove into the village. He found the police chief grim and not inclined to be communicative.

  “She’s dead. That’s all I’m going to say, Dane. The district attorney’s coming over. I wish to God he’d keep out of this. I’ve got enough trouble of my own.”

  “What brings him?” Dane inquired. “If it was her heart—”

  “Well,” Floyd said grudgingly, “there are one or two more things I don’t like. Somebody jerked the pushbutton off the bed, for one thing. Then about one A.M. one or two of the patients report somebody opening their doors and looking in. Searching for her, probably. Didn’t know what room she was in.”

  “That ought to let out some of your prize suspects.”

  “Yeah? Just who? None of the Spencers except Carol knew where she was. And Greg Spencer says he was driving all over the map when it happened.”

  He did not mention the fire escape, nor did Dane. He blustered about these tight-mouthed women who wouldn’t tell all they knew; that he was sorry as hell about Lucy, but if she’d only talked—However he was on the trail of something. That dead girl, now.

  “She probably came from somewhere in the Middle West,” he said. “Say somewhere about St. Louis, eh?”

  He grinned at Dane, and Dane gave him an amused smile in return.

  “I imagine we’ll both know before long,” he said, and went out.

  The hospital was quiet when he got there. It was inured to death. It did the best it could. After that things were either up to God or to the patient, depending on your view of things. It was busy, though. No one paid any attention to Dane as he wandered around, first outside and then through the halls. Floyd was right about the fire escape. It showed fresh scratches on the rusty iron. And upstairs he had no trouble locating Lucy’s empty room. But he was disappointed in finding it had been stripped and Lucy’s small possessions gone.

  He was tired and exasperated as he drove home. If something had frightened Lucy into the heart attack that had killed her, what was it? Or who was it?

  All along Lucy’s attitude had bothered him. So far as he knew she had not mentioned the presence of the girl in the house when she was found and taken to the hospital. All she had told was of a hand reaching out of the closet. Yet at the inquest she had come out flat-footed with the fact.

  Had that caused her death? Sent her midnight visitor up the fire escape, to hunt her out and so terrify her that she died of shock? But why such a visitor, unless she either knew or possessed something that might be incriminating?

  It was this possibility which had sent him to the hospital; to find if possible what clue to the girl’s identity Lucy had in her possession. He was still working on this idea when Tim called him late in the afternoon from St. Louis.

  “No soap,” he said, “and hotter than the hinges of hell here. What do I do now?”

  “Better catch a plane back. I may need you.”

  Tim protested the plane violently.

  “I was airsick all the way out, and how!” he said. “Have a heart! Lemme come on my back, in a good old sleeper. I’m apt to be shoved off the plane anyhow. Any fellow with a brief case under his arm can claim priority.”

  Dane grinned and agreed. Nevertheless, he was uneasy. There was only one explanation of Lucy’s getting out of her bed, and that was fear. If this sort of thing was to go on—

  He walked worriedly about the room. His limp was almost gone, and he realized that he had not much time left. Yet if Carol was in danger—and he began to think she might be—the mystery ought to be solved soon. Not that it was a personal matter, he told himself. No man with this type of job had any business falling for a girl. Any gi
rl. But the thing had to be stopped.

  That night he drove out to the Norton place, a small frame house on a back road some miles away. A number of cars parked around it showed that Joe was not alone in his trouble. As Dane got out of the car he realized that the drought had broken at last. A fine drizzling rain was falling, making the place look bleak and forlorn. He felt like an intruder as he rapped at the door.

  A woman opened it, looking at him suspiciously. She agreed to call Joe, however, and he appeared, haggard and resentful.

  “If you’re from the police I wish you’d let me alone,” he said roughly. “She’s dead. That’s enough, ain’t it?”

  “It’s not enough if somebody terrified her last night,” Dane said. “Better think that over, Mr. Norton. She had a broken leg, but she got out of bed. Why did she do that?”

  Joe doubled his hard fists.

  “Just let me know who scared her,” he said. “He’ll never know what struck him.”

  It was some time before Dane could persuade Joe to let him see what of Lucy’s effects he had brought from the hospital. They were disappointing, at that. Joe had cleared the kitchen of people, and under his suspicious eyes Dane examined what he laid out on the table; a few cotton nightgowns, some handkerchiefs, the clothing she had worn to the inquest, and last of all her shabby pocketbook.

  There were only two or three dollars in it, proving that the murdered girl had not bribed her way into the house. These, a used handkerchief, and a slip containing a list of groceries bought from Miller’s market the day of the girl’s arrival merely bore out her story as she had told it at the inquest. And Joe knew nothing more than Lucy had told him, which was substantially what she had testified.

  However, when Dane pressed him, he admitted that Lucy had been unlike herself when he saw her at the hospital.

  “Seemed like she had something on her mind,” he said. “I asked her, but she wouldn’t tell me. Said she’d tell Miss Carol when she came. Only thing I got out of her, she said she thought the girl was scared of something the night she was killed. She didn’t know what.”

  So it was back to the Spencer family again, Dane reflected glumly as he drove home. But how? Which one of them was involved? Gregory could have burned the hillside. His easy statement that he had arrived after the fire meant nothing. And so far they had all taken his alibi for granted. But a man could not be in Washington receiving the Medal of Honor for bravery and committing a murder at the same time. Nor could the sight of Greg, knowing him as she did, have alarmed Lucy Norton to her death.