Tales for a Stormy Night

by Dorothy Salisbury Davis

  On his way to the Sun Room, Fox changed his mind about tackling the suspect there. Why not treat him as if he were only a witness?—the better to disarm him. He had no police record, young Mr. Rugg, except for a violation of the peace ordinance in a nearby town: the complaint had been filed against his father and himself—their zeal had simply begat too large a crowd.

  Fox had the young man brought to the office, and there he offered him the most comfortable chair in the room. Rugg chose a straight one instead. Fox thought he might prove rugged, Rugg.

  The lithe youth wore his hair crested around his head a little like a brushed-up halo, for it was almost the color of gold. His eyes were large, blue, and vacuous, though no doubt some would call them deep.

  “Church of the Morning,” Fox started, trying without much success to keep the cynicism from his voice. “When did you join up?”

  “I was called at birth,” Alvin replied with a rotish piety.

  He was older than he looked, Fox realized, and a sure phony. “How old are you, Rugg?”

  “Twenty.”

  “Let’s see your draft registration. This is no newspaper interview.”

  “Thirty-two,” Rugg amended, wistful as a woman.

  “What do you do for a living?”

  “Odd jobs. I’m a handyman when I’m not doing the Lord’s work.”

  “How do you get these…these odd jobs?”

  “My father recommends me.”

  “That would be the Reverend Rugg?”

  The young man nodded—there was scarcely the shadow of a beard on his face. Fox was trying to calculate how the women to whom his father recommended him would feel about Alvin of the halo. Fox himself would have had more feeling for a goldfish, but then he was not a lonely woman. He must look up some of them, those still among the living. Fox had gone to the revival tent the night before—he and one-tenth the population of Rockland, almost 12,000 people. It did not seem so extraordinary then that all three victims had chanced to catch the fervor of the Church of the Morning.

  “I suppose you talk religion with your employers?”

  “That is why I am for hire, Captain.”

  The arrogance of an angel on its way to hell, Fox thought. “Who was your mother?” he snapped, on the chance that this was the young man’s point of vulnerability.

  “A Magdalen,” Rugg said. “I have never asked further. My father is a holy man.”

  Fox muttered a vulgarity beneath his breath. He was a believer in orthodoxy, himself. Revivalists were not for him, especially one like Reverend Rugg whom he had heard last night speak of his boy, this golden lad, as sent to him like a pure spirit, a reward—this golden lad…of thirty-two.

  “The reason I asked you to come in, Alvin,” Fox said, forcing amiability upon himself, and quite as though he had not sent two officers to pick Rugg up, “I thought you might be able to help us on these murders. You’ve heard about them?”

  “I…I had thought of coming in myself,” Rugg said.

  “When did that thought occur to you?”

  “Well, two or three weeks ago at least—the first time, I mean. You see, I worked for that Mrs. Troy—cleaned her windows, things like that. Her husband was a bitter, vengeful man. He doesn’t have the spiritual consolation his wife had.”

  A nice distinction of the present and past tenses, Fox thought. But what Troy did have was an unbreakable alibi: five witnesses to his continuous presence at a poker table on the night Elsie Troy was slain.

  “She told you that about him?” Fox prompted cheerfully.

  “Well, not exactly. She wanted to make a donation to the church but she couldn’t. He had their bank account tied up…she said.”

  The hesitation before the last two words was marked by Fox. Either the Ruggs had investigated Elsie Troy’s finances, he thought, or Alvin was covering up an intimacy he feared the detective suspected or had evidence of.

  “But Mrs. Troy ran a nursery school,” Fox said blandly. “I don’t suppose she took the little ones in out of charity, do you?”

  “Her husband had put up the money for the school. He insisted his investment should be paid back to him first.”

  “I wouldn’t call that unreasonable, would you, Alvin? A trifle unchivalrous, perhaps, but not unreasonable?”

  A vivid dislike came into the boy’s, the man’s, eyes. He had suddenly made an enemy of him, Fox thought with grim satisfaction. He would soon provoke the unguarded word. “Didn’t you and Mrs. Troy talk about anything besides money?”

  “We talked about faith,” Rugg said, and then clamped his lips tight.

  “Did you also do chores for Mrs. Mullins?”

  “No. But she offered once to get me a messenger’s job at the advertising company where she worked. Said I could do a lot of good there.”

  “I’ll bet,” Fox said. “And how about Mary Philips? What was she going to do for you?” He resisted the temptation to refer to the beauty shop.

  “Nothing. She was a very nice woman.”

  That, Fox thought, was a revelatory answer. It had peace of soul in it. The captain then proceeded to turn the heat on “Deacon” Rugg, and before half an hour was over he got from the golden boy the admission that both Elsie Troy and Jane Mullins had made amatory advances. Seeking more than religion, the self widowed starvelings! They kicked out husbands and then welcomed any quack in trousers. Lady breadwinners! Fox could feel the explosion of his own anger; it spiced his powers of inquisition.

  Alvin Rugg was then given such mental punishment as might have made a less vulnerable sinner threaten suit against the city. But while “The Deacon” lacked airtight alibis for the nights of the 29th of April, the 16th of May, and June 2nd, he had been seen about his father’s tent by many people, and he maintained his innocence through sweat and tears, finally sobbing his protestations on his knees.

  The extent of The Fox’s mercy was to leave Rugg alone to compose himself and find his own way to the street.

  “Until tomorrow then, this is Nancy Fox going ‘The Woman’s Way.’”

  Nancy gathered her papers so as not to make a sound the microphone could pick up. The newscaster took over. The next instant Nancy was listening with all the concentration of her being.

  “…a man about forty, quick of movement, near six feet tall, a hundred and sixty pounds, extremely agile; he probably dresses conservatively and speaks softly. One of his victims is thought to have been describing him when she told a friend, ‘You never know when he is going to smile or when he isn’t—he changes moods so quickly…’”

  Nancy pressed her lips together and leaned far away from the table. Her breathing was loud enough to carry into the mike. That was her own husband the newscaster was describing—Ed Fox himself right down to the unpredictable smile! Actually, it could be any of a dozen men, she tried to tell herself. Of course. Any of a hundred! What nonsense to put such a description over the air!

  She had regained her composure by the time the reporter had finished his newscast. Then she had coffee with him, as she often did. But what a fantastic experience! Fantasy—that was the only word for it. The description had been part of a release from the office of the chief of police, which meant it had Ed’s own approval.

  “But now I’m going to tell you what it sounded like to me,” the newsman said. “Like somebody—maybe on the inside—deliberately muddying up the tracks. I tell you somebody down there knows more than we’re getting in these handouts.”

  “What a strange idea!” Nancy cried, and gave a deprecating laugh as hollow as the clink of her dime on the counter.

  She spent the next couple of hours in the municipal library, trying to learn something about water rights. A bill on the water supply was before the city council. Two years of research would have been more adequate to the subject, she discovered. Once more she had dived into something only to crack her head in the shallows of her own ignorance. Then she drove out to the county fairgrounds to judge the cake contest of the Grange women. She fle
d the conversational suggestion that the murderer might be scouting there. Some women squealed with a sort of ecstatic terror.

  A feeling of deepening urgency pursued her from one chore to the next: there was something she ought to do, something she must return to and attend to. And yet the specific identity of this duty did not reveal itself. Sometimes she seemed on the brink of comprehension…but she escaped. Oh, yes, that much of herself she knew: she was fleeing it, not it fleeing her.

  With that admission she cornered herself beyond flight. There was a question hanging in the dark reaches of her mind, unasked now even as it was five years ago. Since the night Mort Simmons died in the electric chair, it clung like monstrous fungi at the end of every cavern through which she fled. And by leaving her husband’s house she had not escaped it.

  Ask it now, she demanded—ask it now!

  She drove off the pavement and braked the car to a shrieking halt. “All right!” she cried aloud. “I ask it before God—is Ed Fox capable of…” But she could not finish the sentence. She bent her head over the wheel and sobbed, “Eddie, oh, Eddie dear, forgive me…”

  Without food, without rest, she drove herself until the day was spent, and with it most of her energy. Only her nerves remained taut. She returned just before dark to the apartment she had subleased from a friend. It was in no way her home: she had changed nothing in it, not even the leaf on the calendar. And so the place gave her no message when she entered—neither warning nor welcome.

  She left the hall door ajar while she groped her way to the table where the lamp stood, and at the moment of switching on the light she sensed that someone had followed her into the apartment. Before she could fully see him, he caught her into his arms.

  “Don’t, please don’t!” she cried. Her struggling but made him tighten his grip.

  “For God’s sake, Nancy, it’s me!”

  “I know!” she said, and leaped away as Ed gave up his grasp of her. She could taste the retch of fear. She whirled and looked at him as if she were measuring the distance between them.

  “You knew?” he said incredulously. “You knew that it was me and yet you acted like that?”

  She could only stare at him and nod in giddy acknowledgment of the truth.

  His hands fell limp to his sides. “My God,” he murmured.

  A world of revelation opened to her in that mute gesture, in the simple dropping of his hands.

  Neither of them moved. She felt the ache that comes with unshed tears gathering in her throat as the bitter taste of fear now ran out. It was a long moment until the tears were loosed and welled into her eyes, a moment in which they measured each other in the other’s understanding—or in the other’s misunderstanding.

  “I thought I might surprise an old love—if I surprised you,” he said flatly. “And then when I realized you were afraid, it seemed so crazy—so inconsiderate a thing to do, with a maniac abroad.” He stood, sell-pilloried and miserable—immobile, lest one move of his start up the fear in her again.

  At last she managed the words: “Eddie, I do love you.”

  Fox raised his arms and held them out to her and she ran to him with utter abandon.

  Presently he asked, “How long have you been afraid of me?”

  “I think since the night Mort Simmons was executed,” she said, and then clinging to him again, “Oh, my dear, my beloved husband.”

  He nodded and lifted her fingers to his lips. “How did you conceal it? Fear kills love. They say like that.” He snapped his fingers.

  “I never called it fear,” she said, lifting her chin—and that, she thought, that inward courage was what he mistook for pride—“not until…” She bit her lip against the confession of the final truth.

  “Until the murder of one, two, three women,” Fox said evenly, “with whose lives you knew I’d have no sympathy.”

  “I didn’t know that exactly,” she said. “I only knew your prejudices.”

  “Pride and Prejudice,” he mused. He pushed her gently an arm’s distance from him. “Take another look at my prejudices, Nancy, and see who suffers most by them.”

  “May I come home now, Eddie?”

  “Soon, darling. Very soon.” He picked up his hat from where it had fallen in their struggle. “But you must let me tell you when.”

  He should have known it, really, Fox thought, closing the apartment door behind him. He was so alert to it in others, he should have seen the fear grow in her since the night she caught him naked-souled, suffering the death of Mort Simmons. Suppose that night he had tried to explain what had happened to him? How could he have said that it was not Mort Simmons’s guilt he doubted, but his own innocence? How tell her that at the hour of his death, Mort Simmons was in a very special way the victim of Ed Fox?

  Fox drove to within a block of Thomas Coyne’s boarding house. He parked the car and walked up the street to where the tail he had put on Coyne was sitting, a newspaper before him, in a nondescript Ford. Fox slipped in beside him.

  “Coyne’s in there,” the other detective said. “Been there since he came home from work. Ten minutes ago he went down to the corner for a paper. Came right back.”

  Fox decided to talk first with Mrs. Tuttle. He approached her by way of the kitchen door, identified himself, and got a cup of warmed-over coffee at the table. A voluble, lusty, good-natured woman, she responded easily to his question—whether she was interested in the Church of the Morning. She shook her head. Fox described “Deacon” Alvin Rugg and his relationship to the murdered women.

  Mrs. Tuttle clucked disapproval and admitted she had heard of him, but where she could not remember. To the captain’s direct question as to whether she had ever seen the golden boy, she shook her head again. “I tell you, Mr. Fox, I like my men and my whiskey 100 proof, and my religion in a church with a stone foundation.”

  Fox laughed. “Anybody in the house here interested in the Revival?”

  “What you want to know,” she said, looking at him sidewise, “is if it was Tom Coyne who told me about him. Isn’t that it?”

  Fox admitted to the bush he had been beating around. “I’d like to know if Coyne has shown any interest in the sect.”

  “I don’t know for sure. He takes sudden fancies, that one does.”

  “I understand he has a very deep fancy for you,” Fox said bluntly.

  Mrs. Tuttle frowned, the good nature fleeing her face. She took his cup and saucer to the sink and clattered it into the dish basin.

  “I’m sorry to be clumsy about a delicate matter,” Fox said, getting up from the table and following to where he could see her face. Shame or wrath? he wondered. Perhaps both. “It was very necessary to Coyne that he confide that information to the police,” he elaborated, in subtle quest of further information.

  “Was it?” she said. “Then maybe it was necessary for him to come to me in the first place. Can you tell me that, mister?”

  “If you tell me when it was he first came to you—in that sense, I mean,” Fox said.

  “A couple of nights ago,” she said. “Till then it was just…well, we were pals, that’s all.”

  Fox examined his own fingernails. “He didn’t take very long to tell about it, did he?”

  “Now answer my question to you,” she said. “Did he come just so he could tell you him and me were—like that?”

  Fox ventured to lay his hand on her arm. She pulled away from his touch as though it were fire. Her shame was deep, her affair shallow, he thought. “Just stay in the kitchen,” he said. She would have her answer soon enough.

  He moved through the hall and alerted the detective on watch at the front. Then he went upstairs. Thomas Coyne was sitting in his room, the newspaper open on the table before him, a pencil in his hand. He had been caught in the obviously pleasurable act of marking an item in the paper, and he gathered himself up on seeing Fox—like a bather surprised in the nude.

  It gave an ironic sequence to the pretense on which Fox had come. “I wanted to see your
swim trunks,” Captain Fox said.

  Coyne was still gaping. Slowly he uncoiled himself and then pointed to the dresser drawer.

  “You get them,” Fox said. “I don’t like to invade your privacy.” He turned partially away, in fact, to suggest that he was unaware of the newspaper over which he had surprised the man. He waited until Coyne reached the dresser, and then moved toward the table, but even there Fox pointed to the picture on the wall beyond it, and remarked that he remembered its like from his school days. A similar print, he said, had hung in the study hall. On and on he talked, and if Coyne was aware of the detective’s quick scrutiny of his marked newspaper, it was less fearful for the man to pretend he had not seen it.

  “My wife, Ellen, having left my bed and board, I am no longer responsible….”

  Fox had seen it. So, likely, had the husbands of Mary Philips and Jane Mullins and Elsie Troy given public notice sometime or other. The decision he needed to reach instantly was whether he had sufficient evidence to indict Tom Coyne: it was so tempting to let him now pursue the pattern once more—up to its dire culmination.

  The detective stood, his arms folded, while Coyne brought the swim trunks. “Here you are, Captain,” he said.

  “Haven’t worn them much,” Fox said, not touching them.

  “It’s early,” Coyne said.

  “So it is,” Fox said. “The fifth of June. Baker’s Beach just opened Memorial Day, didn’t it?”

  There was no serenity in Coyne now. He realized the trap into which he had betrayed himself while under questioning by Fox and the chief of police. So many things he had made seem right—even an affair with Mrs. Tuttle; and now that one little thing, by Fox’s prompting, was wrong. He would not have been allowed in the waters of Baker’s beach before the thirtieth of May. In order to account for the sand in his room following the murder of Jane Mullins, he had said he had gone swimming at Baker’s Beach two or three weeks before.