“I don’t believe it!”
“He got me this job,” Gracie said. “You’d better stop reading ads. You’re the type who cries for Castoria when you’re a baby, switches to Ex-Lax at seven, chews Feenamint until you’re twenty-one, and spends the rest of your life eating All-Bran.”
Miss Rudd chose this tense moment to reappear in the doorway. She had been on quite a tour evidently, for she had picked up several stale buns, half a loaf of bread and a man’s tie. The tie Isobel recognized as Mr. Goodwin’s.
“A strange house,” said Mr. Goodwin, fingering the place where his tie had once been knotted. “A very, very, very strange house.”
Mr. Goodwin was a far from ordinary man and had found himself in some far from ordinary places in his thirty-two years, but until today no one had ever shot at him or cut his hat into ribbons or stolen a tie from his sleeping and defenseless neck. Nor, until tonight, had Mr. Goodwin ever been released from the torments of insomnia, nor so deserted by his muse.
The cat, for instance, was well worth a quatrain of blood-imagery, but try as he would Mr. Goodwin could get no further than the title, simple but telling, “Cat.”
He sat up straight on the chesterfield and peered into the darkness for signs of the creeping fingers he had felt around his throat. He saw nothing, which was fortunate, for he was not cast in the heroic mold, and preferred to be a mystic rather than take the trouble to find out facts. Faced with the choice of believing in Miss Rudd or pixies, Mr. Goodwin chose pixies and was the happier for it.
There was, however, the sound of someone walking in the hall and the footfall was rather heavier than you would expect even from the best-nourished pixie.
Still, why seek the disaster of enlightenment? Mr. Goodwin lay down again and closed his eyes. The footsteps were not stealthy, they had a determined briskness about them, which to Mr. Goodwin’s mind meant either Evaline Vista or Isobel Seton. He did not feel able to cope with either of these ladies at present, so he closed his eyes more tightly. This proved to be his undoing.
“You’re not sleeping,” said a cool voice right above his head. “Your eyes are all squinty. You can’t fool me.”
“Obviously not,” said Mr. Goodwin wearily and sat up again.
Joyce Hunter, very bright-eyed and trim in the brown slacks suit she’d worn under her skiing clothes, sat down beside him.
“People,” she said, “have been rushing up and down the hall upstairs. So I thought I’d better get up and see what’s doing, but as soon as I got up the people were gone. Isn’t that funny?”
“No,” said Mr. Goodwin.
“One of them was Miss Seton. She’s very spry for her age, I think. I hope she doesn’t get any ideas about Poppa.”
“Ideas?”
“Marriage. You know. Poppa’s a frightful ass in some ways. I always have to rescue him. I wonder where Miss Rudd is. Somebody let her out.”
“Why don’t you go and look for her?” Mr. Goodwin said coaxingly. “Wouldn’t that be fun?”
“No,” Joyce said, “and please stop treating me as a child. I’m nineteen. People are fully adult at nineteen. Think back to yourself at nineteen.”
Mr. Goodwin thought back to himself at nineteen and shuddered, with reason.
“Well, anyway,” Joyce said, “I certainly didn’t feel like staying up in my room all alone with Miss Rudd running around loose. Perhaps I’ll stay here for the rest of the night. We could talk about poetry, unless you’d rather tell me about your affairs.”
“No,” said Mr. Goodwin, “I wouldn’t.”
“I’d be terribly interested. A lot of people confide in me, I’m so close-mouthed. Not even one affair, just to pass the time?”
“Well, perhaps one,” Mr. Goodwin said grudgingly. “Have you heard about Lady Hamilton-Fyske and myself?”
“No,” Joyce breathed, blinking her eyes rapidly.
“Cecily was very impetuous,” Mr. Goodwin mused. “She had everything, beauty, money, figure, honorable mention in Who’s Who and an I.Q. of one-forty. Her husband was in the House of Lords, of course, a big sporting fellow who went in for hunting and drinking. Once when he was hunting in the Congo he shot off all his bearers just for the thrill of trying to get out of the Congo by himself.”
Joyce frowned and said, “Really?”
“Really,” Mr. Goodwin said firmly. “Naturally Cecily had a lot of time on her hands so she took up the study of Sanskrit. That was how I met her. She was in the British Museum sobbing bitterly over the defunct present participle of the verb, to be.”
“You’re making this up,” Joyce said in stiff, dignified tones.
Mr. Goodwin sighed and stared up at the ceiling. “Best I could do.”
“I bet you’ve never even had an affair.”
“Let’s talk about you,” Mr. Goodwin said. “What are you going to be when you grow up?”
Joyce gazed at him sulkily.
“Because if you’ve nothing else in mind,” Mr. Goodwin said gently, “I think there’s a fine career ahead of you as a Public Enemy.”
“Oh, you’re just trying to make me mad,” Joyce said with a sniff, “so I’ll go off to bed. That won’t work. Besides, I’m too hungry to sleep. I wish I had some food. I know where there is some.”
At the mention of food Mr. Goodwin realized that he too was very hungry. A bargain was eventually struck whereby Joyce would procure food in return for being treated as a civilized and intelligent adult. Mr. Goodwin thought he was worsted in the bargain, but when Joyce returned with an opened can of beans and some bread he decided to let it ride. The beans were cold, but they gave Mr. Goodwin a warm glow in the pit of his muse. He produced an item called “Snow,” which, while not first-rate, definitely showed the Goodwin flair.
“Snow snow snow.
The white of it and the fright of it.
The delight of it and the blight of it.
The might of it.
Hélas, the neige is beige.”
This was as far as he got. Still, it was definitely encouraging. The muse was not dead, she had merely a touch of hypochondria.
Cheered, Mr. Goodwin recited it to Joyce. Joyce said it stank.
“Really?” said Mr. Goodwin, pleased. “Really stinks?”
“Terribly.”
Mr. Goodwin knew then that he had achieved success. He hastily wrote it down on the back of a bill for Dental Services, Dr. Gratton, fifteen dollars, please remit.
He was interrupted by the breathless arrival of Isobel Seton. Isobel was looking rather worn. When she saw Goodwin her face sagged with relief.
“Thank God,” she said. “You’re all right?”
Mr. Goodwin was fine and said so, feeling extremely pleased at Isobel’s reaction to this announcement.
“I thought you were dead,” she explained. “I mean Miss Rudd came in with your tie and I thought, we thought—maybe you were strangled.”
“Strangled?” said Mr. Goodwin, shaken.
Isobel drew in her breath and began again. “I mean, Miss Rudd came to me with your tie and we didn’t see . . . Oh, the hell with it!”
She flounced over to a chair and sank into it. “Here, take the thing,” she said, flinging his tie to him. “And for heaven’s sake hang on to your clothes.”
“Who let her out?” Joyce said.
“Gracie Morning.”
“Oh,” Joyce said thoughtfully. “Why?”
“Humanitarian reasons,” Isobel said grimly. “You figure it out.”
“She’s all right, is she? Not homicidal or anything?”
“Not yet.”
“What’s she doing?” Joyce asked.
“Reading. Reading some papers. She stole the papers from Floraine’s desk and brought them as a present to Gracie. And please don’t ask me any more questions, Miss Hunter, because I can’t
answer them.”
Joyce said huffily, “Well, if you can’t, who can? You’ve been tearing up and down the hall upstairs all night.”
“Mr. Crawford and I found the bus driver’s coat under the coal.”
Joyce’s eyes gleamed for an instant. “You did? What did Mr. Crawford do with it?”
“Put it in the closet in the hall.”
“May I see it?”
“Why?” Isobel said.
“Can’t I do some snooping as well as you?”
There was a lively argument on snooping powers which ended in Joyce’s going out to look at the coat.
She came back looking cross. “It’s not there,” she announced. “Miss Rudd must have beat us to it.”
8
Maudie Thropple awoke with the strong conviction that somebody was chasing somebody else through the hall. There was the scuffling of feet and several small squeals, followed by a thud and the sound of feet going violently down the steps. Under normal circumstances Maudie might have had hysterics at these odd noises, but she had lived through a great deal today. Her cup was full, and anything more that happened to her was bound to be an anticlimax.
So she merely raised herself from the pillow and nudged Herbert in the back with her elbow.
She said in the frail voice required of a woman who has fainted twice in one evening: “Herbie. Herbie dear, wake up.”
Herbie dear tried his best not to wake up, but Maudie had a sharp insistent elbow which she used with unerring accuracy. Herbert groaned aloud.
Maudie felt that the groan was an insult to her status as an invalid. She abandoned the frail voice for something more compelling.
“You might at least wake up when I tell you to, after what I’ve been through, Herbert. There’s someone fighting in the hall.”
“You’ve been dreaming,” Herbert said hopefully. When a cold silence greeted this remark he sat up on the bed and listened. The hall was quiet. He said, “You’re just excited. Lie down again, angel. Take it easy.”
Maudie could think of no reply scathing enough. She looked across at the man with whom she had chosen to spend the rest of her years. Chosen. No compulsion about it.
Herbert did not measure up. Perhaps in a cosy restaurant, wearing a dinner coat and nicely shaved and combed with a little talcum to tone down the highlights in his bald spot—perhaps . . .
But seen in the light of an oil lamp, swaddled in moth-eaten blankets, Herbert failed to meet the test. His hair seemed to sprout above his ears, not like hair at all but like a strange fungus growth. His eyes were half-closed and there was none of that steely glint in them that proclaimed: Here is a man.
I have made, Maudie thought, Another Mistake. She shuddered.
“Cold, angel?” said Herbert.
“Get up,” Maudie said. “Go and look in the hall. And don’t call me silly names.”
Herbert knew this mood well. He hastily disentangled himself from the blankets and went to the door. The hall was very dark and he might have missed Miss Rudd entirely if she had not opened the conversation by saying, “I pinched Harry.”
“You did, eh?” Herbert said nervously. “Well, well.”
Behind him Maudie’s voice said anxiously, “Who is it?”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Herbert said. “Nothing much.”
Miss Rudd was sitting on the floor in the hall. She had had a big night and was looking tired but happy.
“I pinched Harry,” she said, “and he pushed me and ran away down the steps. What a coward!”
“Shut that door,” Maudie hissed. “Shut it! It’s her again!”
Herbert said, “Well, good night,” and shut the door.
“She’s loose,” Maudie said. “Someone let her loose.”
“She seems to be all right, though,” said Herbert, who could spot a silver lining miles away. “She’s not into anything. Might as well let her alone.”
“You’ll have to do something!”
“What can I do? She wouldn’t listen to me anyway.”
“We can’t just stay here.”
The problem was solved by the rather breathless arrival of Paula Lashley.
She said, “Mr. Crawford thinks we should all get up and go downstairs and stay together. It’s six o’clock anyway, and most of the others are down there.”
“They left us alone up here,” cried Maudie with a tragic gesture.
“Nonsense,” Paula said coolly. “Chad and Mr. Hunter are right across the hall.”
She went out again, passing Miss Rudd who gazed at her brightly but said nothing.
She rapped on Chad’s door. She could hear someone getting off the bed and soon Chad came and opened the door. He had just wakened up and his eyes were soft and the scowl hadn’t appeared on his face yet.
She said softly, “Hello.”
He smiled at her gently, and for a minute everything was all right. Then Miss Rudd stirred, and Paula lowered her eyes.
“The others are downstairs. Mr. Crawford thinks we should go down, too.”
“Paula . . .”
“Don’t say anything. I don’t want to talk about anything.”
“You never do!” He gripped her shoulders tightly. “You’re an awful coward.”
“Take your hands off me.”
He released her shoulders.
“You can’t solve everything by force,” Paula said levelly. “You’d better wake Mr. Hunter. I’m going down.”
“I could solve it by force if I wanted to, but I’m beginning to think you’re not worth the trouble. You want to go back, all right go back. Only don’t write me any sniveling little notes asking me . . .”
“You won’t get any notes.” She turned and walked stiffly down the stairs.
Chad went back into his room and found Mr. Hunter sitting up with every appearance of having enjoyed the snatch of conversation.
“Women,” he said sadly, “are difficult to understand, my boy. Even a man of my years occasionally finds himself at a loss.”
This was a plain case of understatement, but Mr. Hunter was unaware of it and Chad didn’t care to point it out. He growled something in return and started to smooth down his hair.
“If there’s anything I can help you with,” Mr. Hunter said, “anything requiring experience in these matters such as I . . .”
“Thanks, no.”
“Just ask my advice if anything turns up,” Mr. Hunter said wistfully. “I can’t say that I’m much help to my own family. Joyce seems to be a very competent girl.”
“We’re supposed to be going downstairs,” Chad said. “What for, I don’t know. I was doing all right up here.”
Mr. Hunter looked mournful. “Probably Miss Seton is at the bottom of it. She’s one of these women who gets ideas and then expects other people to carry them out. The very worst type, take my word for it.”
“I will,” Chad said abruptly. “Coming?”
“I suppose I’ll have to.”
In the sitting room Mr. Hunter’s fears were realized. Isobel had taken a stance in front of the fireplace and she was looking both angry and determined. She said in the brisk voice
of a woman accustomed to giving commands to horses, dogs and men:
“Are we all here?”
“Miss Morning isn’t,” said Mrs. Vista.
“She’s upstairs with Miss Rudd,” Isobel said. “Mr. Crawford and I decided . . .”
“You decided,” Crawford said.
“. . . that we had better meet to decide what we’re going to do about Floraine and how we’re going to get out of here this morning as soon as it’s light.”
“I don’t think we should worry about getting out of here,” Herbert said. “The people at the Lodge will have sent out a party looking for the bus and when they find the bus they’ll trace us here.�
�
“You have more confidence in people who run lodges than I have,” said Isobel coldly, “and much more confidence in the bus driver. How do we know that he was even taking us to the Lodge? How do we know he was on the right road? It seemed to me that the road was nothing more than a lane. Has anyone been to this place before?”
“I have,” Paula said. “I was here last year, but I can’t remember the road that well.”
“I think,” Isobel continued, “that he turned off the right road, that it was all part of a plan to get us here in this house.”
“To get us here?” Herbert echoed. “But that’s fantastic! I mean, why should anyone want us here? Why, we don’t even know each other.”
“I wish you wouldn’t talk like that,” Mrs. Vista said loudly. “Here we are and we have to stand each other anyway, so I don’t think we should inquire too closely. My life is an open book, of course, but I don’t care to have it a best seller.”
“I can see I’m going to get very little cooperation,” Isobel said.
“You’re going to get none, sister,” said Crawford.
Isobel raised her eyebrows. “Mr. Crawford is an interesting case to start with. In the first place his name is not Crawford. In the second, he’s carrying a gun. In the third, he deliberately destroyed a piece of evidence that the bus driver actually came to this house.”
“You forgot the bottle of brandy,” Crawford said cheerfully. “I stole it from the kitchen.”
Isobel flushed. “You admit the other things?”
“I admit everything.”
“How Oxford-Groupish,” said Mrs. Vista. “These things get very embarrassing sometimes. I remember in London once . . .”
“That’s a fact about the brandy, is it?” Herbert said with interest. “I don’t suppose you’d care to pass it around?”
“Not sanitary,” said Crawford.
“Please!” Isobel shouted. “If you’re all going to launch into private conversations how are we going to decide anything? I gave Mr. Crawford as an example. He may have his reasons for this extraordinary behavior, and as far as I know it’s no crime to change your name. But the point is he could easily be the one who arranged this set-up, for all we know about him.”
Fire Will Freeze Page 9
