by Jack Iams
He stopped suddenly, realizing that Sybil was shaking with helpless laughter. “What’s so damned funny?”
“Not peasant, darling,” she gasped, “not peasant. Pedant. With a d.”
“Oh,” said Tim. He began to laugh, too. It was suddenly the funniest thing in the world. They laughed till they cried. Their laughter billowed around them, sweeping away suspicion and anger in joyous, flooding relief.
He found he was holding her in his arms, her cheek wet against his, her lips salty on his.
Chapter Thirteen
Old Dog Tries New Trick
In the early afternoon, John Squareless appeared at the front door. He was wearing his windbreaker again, the air having grown chill and the sunlight pale.
“Afraid you people will think I’m a busybody instead of a recluse,” he said to Sybil, who answered his knock.
“We prefer you as a busybody,” said Sybil. “Do come in.”
She led him into the living-room where Tim, who had been making a half-hearted effort to straighten out his notes in the library, joined them.
Squareless sat in an easy chair and lit his pipe. “Heard about the unpleasant discovery you two made this morning,” he said. “Something of a shock, I should imagine.”
“A bit,” said Sybil. “However, the police seem to have the situation well in hand.”
“Do they?” said Squareless. “From what I gather, the police are assuming it’s a case of suicide on which they hope to close their books as soon as possible and get back to their checkers.”
“Have you any reason to think it’s not a suicide, Mr. Squareless?” asked Sybil.
“Yes,” said Squareless. “I do.” He puffed on his pipe a moment. “I thought you two might have reached the same conclusion.”
“We did some speculating,” said Tim, “but we didn’t reach any conclusions.”
“After all,” said Sybil, “who are we to pit ourselves against the guardians of the peace? Why do you think it wasn’t suicide, Mr. Squareless?”
“Because a man who’s going to commit suicide,” said Squareless, “doesn’t make a social event out of it. And there were several people roaming around the pier last night.”
“Really?” said Sybil.
“Yes,” said Squareless. He looked at her as if he expected her to say something more. But she only maintained her expression of bright interest.
Squareless studied his pipe. “I’m a late sitter-upper,” he resumed. “Books, I find, taste better at night. About two o’clock this morning, while I was teetering between the decline and fall of Rome, I happened to notice a light at the end of the pier. It came and went several times as if somebody were using a flashlight rather cautiously. Of course, it could have been a fisherman, but somehow I didn’t think it was. So I climbed into my dinghy for a little patrol work.”
Tim remembered the man in the boat and sucked in his breath. Squareless glanced at him.
“It was just top of the ebb,” he went on, “so I was able to get pretty close to the pier. Close enough to make out two figures who seemed to be carrying something. I could hear ’em talking, too. You know how even a whisper carries across water. Of course, the sound of oars does, too, and first thing J knew a beam of light lit square on the boat. It flashed off right away, and there wasn’t another peep from the pier. I stayed around for a bit, until the tide started in and took me along with it, but everything was quiet. Then suddenly I heard voices again, this time at the foot of the pier. I was around the point and couldn’t see anything, but I got the impression that somebody had interrupted the people I’d seen.”
“That was me,” said Tim. In the brief silence, he felt Sybil’s eyes but he didn’t look at her.
“I thought it probably was,” said Squareless. “I’m glad you’ve seen fit to tell me.”
“It was my fault he didn’t before,” said Sybil quickly. “I have a horror of getting involved in anything of this sort.”
“As a recluse,” said Squareless, “so do I. I don’t propose to get involved, either. As far as I’m concerned, this conversation is strictly between the three of us.”
Again it seemed to Tim that he was inviting Sybil to further confidence.
“The three of us,” sighed Sybil. “To a bridge player, the saddest of all words.”
“Did the chap on the pier look like a bridge player?” asked Squareless. There was nothing in his tone to suggest that this was intended as more than a grim pleasantry, and yet Tim couldn’t help feeling that the question was loaded.
“He looked livelier than some partners I’ve had,” said Sybil.
“Speaking of bridge,” said Squareless, apparently resigning himself to the change of subject, “I must confess that our conversation of last night has reawakened my dormant appetite for the game. I dare say a monk is affected the same way by a pornographic book.”
“I wouldn’t know,” said Sybil, “but it’s a very vivid simile.”
“At my age,” said Squareless, “I wouldn’t know either. But it gives a rough idea of how I feel about bridge.”
“Then let’s do something drastic about a fourth,” said Sybil. “Let’s scour the highways and byways. I meant to ask the Police Chief this morning.”
“To play or to track down a player?” asked Tim.
“Whichever.”
“As a matter of fact,” said Squareless, “there ought to be somebody in the pinewoods community who either knows the rudiments of the game or could learn them. There’s a little general store back there where they sit around the stove all winter and play some damned thing that involves a deck of cards. Pinochle, probably.”
A clang from the basement brought a sudden light to Sybil’s face. “We could ask Mr. Whittlebait!” she exclaimed.
“Who?” said Squareless. “Oh, the handy man.”
Sybil went into the hall and opened the door leading to the basement. “Mr. Whittlebait,” she called.
“Be right up, ma’am,” said Mr. Whittlebait’s voice from below. It could be heard continuing, querulously, as he plodded up the stairs. “Well, I hope that danged thing will work now. Done all I could. Ain’t a professional plumber, you know.”
“I’m sure you’ve done your best, Mr. Whittlebait,” said Sybil, ushering him toward the living-room. “The big question now is, can you play bridge?”
“Played London Bridge as a kid,” said Mr. Whittlebait. “London Bridge, Post Office, everything.” He winked at Tim.
Sybil looked despairingly at Squareless.
“But I reckon,” went on Mr. Whittlebait, “you’re talkin’ about the card game.”
Hope flickered.
“Never played it myself. Heard folks talk about it a good bit.”
“Folks who live around here?” asked Sybil.
“Nah,” said Mr. Whittlebait. “Summer people.”
“What sort of cards do you play?” asked Squareless. “Seems to me I’ve seen you taking a hand over at the store.”
“Yep,” said Mr. Whittlebait, “I play a sociable game now and then. Pinochle mostly. Sometimes rummy. Sometimes five hundred.”
“Five hundred, eh?” said Squareless. “By Jove, man, if you can play five hundred, you can learn bridge.”
“I’m a pretty old dog to be learnin’ new tricks,” said Mr. Whittlebait. “You folks got any more chores you want done?”
“We certainly do,” said Sybil briskly. “We want you to sit right down and learn a new trick or two. You owe it to yourself, Mr. Whittlebait. Bridge is a great social asset, you know.”
Mr. Whittlebait twisted his cap in his hands and looked hesitantly around the room. Outside the green-curtained windows, the sky had grown overcast and a few drops of rain glistened on the panes. The long grass of the dunes bent in the wind.
“Right cozy in here,” he said “Wouldn’t hurt to t
ry, I don’t suppose.”
Sybil rubbed her hands gleefully. “This is marvelous,” she exclaimed. “Fetch the table, Tim, darling, there’s a lamb.”
“If Sybil knew anything about American holidays,” observed Tim, “I’d say she was celebrating the glorious Fourth.”
An hour and a half later, Mr. Whittlebait, chipper and bright-eyed, made his dozenth triumphant effort to take a trick with the right bower and received his dozenth reminder that while there might be bowers by Bendemeer’s stream, there weren’t any in bridge.
“Dangnation,” sighed Mr. Whittlebait. “If I could just get them bowers out of my mind, I might get onto this game. It’s got possibilities, I can see that much. But I got to be gettin’ back to the store.”
“Why?” asked Sybil.
Mr. Whittlebait looked embarrassed. “Promised some fellows I’d play pinochle,” he said. “Sorry.”
“I should think so,” said Sybil.
Mild reproof entered Mr. Whittlebait’s meek voice. “I wouldn’t of stayed this long, ma’am,” he said, “except I thought it was takin’ your mind off of—off of what had you so upset and high-stirical a while back.” He gave his head a virtuous little shake and took his departure. Squareless stared at Sybil, sucking on his pipe. “Sorry to hear you were upset,” he said.
“Oh, Mr. Whittlebait’s exaggerating,” said Sybil. “I was much more upset when he led away from his ace-queen three times running.”
“He’s a pretty shrewd chap, though, at that,” said Squareless. “I’m referring, of course, to his sense of cards.”
“Of course,” said Sybil. She rose and went into the hall. A couple of minutes later she came back and said, “Damn! Mr. Whittlebait may have a sense of cards but he certainly lacks a sense of plumbing.”
Chapter Fourteen
A Room With a View
It turned out next morning that, thanks to Mr. Whittlebait’s ministrations, none of the toilets worked. There was an outdoor privy behind the garage, dating from the early years of the house, but this was a poor sort of silver lining on a day that was gray and chill with a hint of drizzle in the air.
“O Whittlebait, O Whittlebait, wherefore art thou, Whittlebait,” chanted Sybil bitterly. “How does one get hold of our leprechaun, anyway?”
“He just appears,” said Tim. “And that’s a misquotation. Juliet wasn’t wondering where Romeo was, she wondered why he was.”
“Why he was what?”
“Romeo.”
Sybil gave him an exasperated look. “Why did I have to marry a professor?” she asked the ceiling. “Why didn’t I marry a plumber?”
“Did one ever ask you?”
“Dozens,” said Sybil. “Furthermore, I was led to expect that American plumbing always worked.”
“Better take it up with the War Bride Association,” said Tim.
“I shall,” said Sybil. “At the moment, though, I’d prefer to take it up with Mr. Whittlebait. Let’s go ask Mr. Squareless if he knows how to reach him.”
“He’ll probably turn up any minute,” said Tim. “Besides, I get a distinct impression that Mr. Squareless doesn’t encourage visitors.”
“He encourages me. I get the impression that he’s very fond of me.”
“As who isn’t?”
“This is no time for pretty sentiment,” said Sybil, although she smiled. “Are the keys in the car?”
Tim nodded and Sybil rose from the breakfast table, lighting a cigarette. “I’ll be back in a jiffy,” she said.
“You’ll probably bounce back,” said Tim.
“No fear,” said Sybil.
She climbed into the car and drove along the sandy road through the dunes. She swung into the macadam thoroughfare, which was deserted, luckily, because Sybil kept painstakingly to the left-hand side. The car rattled across the white bridge, then she saw a driveway entrance overgrown with catbriars and beach grass and a sign that said: Private. No Trespassing.
She turned into the driveway, the briars catching at the fenders, and almost immediately encountered another sign that said: Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted. Twenty yards farther along, still another sign rose truculently from the bayberry to say: Trespassers Will Positively Be Prosecuted.
Sketchy though her familiarity with American advertising methods was, Sybil half expected a final sign that would say: Unless They Use Burma Shave.
However, there were no more signs. Instead, a stone wall, about six feet high, suddenly appeared, dipping through the dunes which it almost matched in color. Apparently it sliced across the point, isolating the tip, without being visible from the other side of the inlet. There was a weather-beaten wooden gate in it, at which the road ended. Beyond the wall, Sybil could see the tall brown walls of the house, its shingle roof sagging between a forlorn cupola and a shaky turret.
She got out of the car and tried the gate, but it was evidently bolted. Well, thought Sybil, he’s barged in on us a couple of times. And this is an emergency. She clambered to the fender of the car and onto the hood from where it was an easy vault across the gate.
She landed with a bit of a jolt in the gravel on the other side and immediately she heard the loud barking of a dog. Across the wet, shaggy lawn in front of the house bounded a big German shepherd, looking as if it had leaped straight out of Red Riding Hood.
“Down, sir!” cried Sybil. Her voice was authoritative, but she felt cold sweat breaking out. She remembered the old theory that dogs can smell fear.
The shepherd stopped, ears lifted, tail stiff, eyes suspicious. Sybil took a step and the dog took a step.
“Down, sir,” she said again. “Enough of this gavotte.”
The dog didn’t move. Sybil wondered uneasily what to do next. Then, to her relief, a deep female voice called from the direction of the house, “Here, Gertie, come here!”
The shepherd looked around, then reluctantly, its bloodshot eyes lingering, it turned and loped toward the front door.
In the doorway, between scraggly rosebushes, an elderly woman stood. She was tall and her face was gaunt and severe. At the moment, her hair was caught up in a duster and she wore an apron over a shapeless house-dress. She was holding a mop, much as an ancient sentry might have held a pikestaff. “Yes?” she said. “What is it?”
“I’m looking for Mr. Squareless,” said Sybil.
The woman stared at her, thinking this over. The dog squatted on its haunches beside the stone steps. Sybil became irritably aware of the fine, cold rain against her face.
Then Squareless himself, wearing a purple smoking-jacket over an open white shirt, appeared in the doorway. “All right, Julia,” he said. “I’ll take care of this.”
The woman didn’t move for a moment. Then she bent her head toward Squareless and apparently whispered something to him.
“Yes,” said Squareless roughly, “yes, yes.”
The woman looked at Sybil and an expression of interest and of something like pity touched her features. Then she gave a shrug and disappeared into the house.
Sybil picked her way across half-buried flagstones, the long grass wet around her ankles. “Good morning,” she said, trying to sound casual and amiable.
“Good morning,” said Squareless. His broad shoulders almost filled the doorway and he made no move to stand aside.
“Your dog gave me a bit of a fright,” said Sybil.
“That’s the dog’s job.”
“Funny job for a dog named Gertie,” said Sybil.
“The name isn’t Gertie. It’s Goethe.”
“Oh.”
Squareless remained motionless in the doorway. Sybil turned up the collar of her tweed coat. “It’s raining, you know,” she said sweetly.
“You mean you want to come in?”
“I expect to be asked.”
“All right,” said Squareless. There w
as no expression on his face or in his voice. “Come in, then.”
He stood back from the door and she stepped into a completely bare hall, no rugs, no hangings, just a staircase and beyond it a naked glass door opening onto a bleak veranda, and beyond that the gray sea. “Cozy,” said Sybil.
“Isn’t it?” said Squareless. “Wait here a minute.” He opened a door and went through it, closing it behind him. Two or three minutes passed while she stood there, shivering a little in the creeping chill. Then the door opened again and Squareless said, “This way, please.”
She walked into a room that made her catch her breath, a room so full of things, so warm, so deeply lived in that it seemed it must belong to a different house, a different part of the world. It was a big room, shaped like half an oval, its outermost curve occupied by great bellying casement windows, hung in heavy draperies of dark red. A thick carpet of dimly mellow Oriental design covered most of the floor. Facing the windows was a massive fireplace of yellowish stone, surmounted by a mantelpiece of polished wood that Sybil thought was teak. Of the same wood was a huge carved desk that sat in the curve of the windows, cluttered with books and papers and pipes and curious paperweights. The remaining wall space was devoted to bookshelves, between the tops of which and the ceiling were ranged the heads of a variety of animals, caribou, wildebeest, and bear among others. Over the fireplace hung the glass-eyed majesty of a lion. Interspersed among the heads were weapons of all sorts; bows and arrows and primitive spears, long-barreled pistols with ornate bone stocks, an old flintlock next to a Mauser.
In all this richly bewildering room there were only two chairs, one a solid, square affair behind the desk, the other a spacious easy chair of natural leather, which sat beside the fireplace with a red hassock in front of it. A brazier of coals glowed in the fireplace.
“Sit down,” said Squareless, gesturing toward the easy chair.
Sybil hesitated. “It’s so obviously your chair,” she said. “I’d feel like an intruder sitting there.”
