Mrs. Van Tocht sat at a short distance from the bed. Her face, a foreshortened mass of flesh, betrayed no expression, but her hands seemed to be tearing at each other in ceaseless agitation.
An unknown woman wearing a grey overall came in carrying a towel, a soap dish containing a piece of yellow kitchen soap, and a bucket of water. Her movements were precise and detached. In a methodical way she removed the bedclothes, revealing the entire corpse, which was almost fully dressed. The effects of the poisoned fudge must have started before she had time to put on her nightdress, poor thing. Later I learnt that she had not gone in to supper, informing Mrs. Van Tocht that she felt livery and had a bad migraine. She must have died while everybody was at supper. This would explain why nobody had heard her call in the last moments of agony.
Now the woman in the grey overall was stripping off Maude’s clothes. She did this with certain difficulty, as rigor mortis must have set in during the night.
A moment later Anna Wertz was clutching my arm convulsively, and we both almost fell through the skylight onto the incredible sight below. Maude’s stark naked corpse was that of a venerable old gentleman.
I shall never quite remember how Anna and I got down the ladder without breaking our necks. We must have negotiated it somehow. We saw Dr. Gambit in the distance, hurrying towards the double bungalow, and hastened to put as much distance as possible between the death chamber and ourselves. As we emerged from the undergrowth we collided with Georgina Sykes, who claimed to have thought she heard a water buffalo under the bushes and had stopped to make sure. Anna Wertz disappeared as if she had a werewolf after her.
“And what the Hell may I ask were you doing trampling around in the bushes with Anna Wertz?” asked Georgina as I picked twigs out of my hair. “You sounded like a stampede of African water buffalos.”
“For goodness sake don’t shout so loud,” I said anxiously. “Somebody might hear you. Come to the bee pond and I will tell you everything.”
“Poor old Maude died of acute cirrhosis of the liver during the night,” said Georgina. “The Gambits assembled us in the work room and told us all about how we should use death for renewed Self Conscious Observation. She was no chicken, but one never thinks it happens quite so suddenly.”
I decided to tell Georgina the whole unpleasant affair, as I had begun to suspect her life might be in danger. I began tentatively: “Maude could not have died of a liver complaint, her complexion was far too fresh. People who die of cirrhosis have yellow skins like Natacha.”
“Maude always plastered her face with pink goo,” said Georgina. “You couldn’t have told if she was turquoise blue under all that stuff.”
“Maude Somers did not die of cirrhosis of the liver.” We had arrived at the bee pond, which was deserted by all but the working bees. We sat on a stone bench and I told Georgina the whole story of how I had watched Mrs. Van Tocht and Natacha put poison in the fudge, how Maude had followed Natacha, and afterwards stolen the fatal sweetmeat. Then the dramatic episode on the bungalow roof where we had discovered that dainty, feminine Maude was really a man.
“Suffering cobras!” said Georgina who had gone pale. “The fudge must have been meant for me. She had it all arranged.”
The little reconciliation feast that Natacha had offered Georgina near the kitchen had been a deliberately planned murder.
“We had better tell Gambit at once,” said Georgina. “They must call in the police. If we were in the United States they would both go to the lethal chamber and be frizzled to lard in the electric chair. I wouldn’t mind paying anything up to ten dollars to watch.”
“There is no capital punishment here,” I told Georgina. “But they might make them work on a chain gang, cracking rocks with pickaxes and whipped by colossal Nubians wearing red loin-cloths.”
Georgina made a wry grimace, “All that will happen is that they will be given a nice sitting room in the ladies’ gaol and they will give fudge parties twice a week and spiritualist seances on Sundays.”
“Of course if they prove poor Maude was murdered,” I said after some reflection, “Natacha would pretend that she had made the fudge to poison the rats she talked about.”
“Whoever heard of making chocolate fudge for rats?” replied Georgina. “They use old lumps of putrefied cheese.”
We set out to look for Dr. Gambit but only succeeded in finding Mrs. Gambit, who was stirring potato soup in the kitchen.
“Dr. Gambit will not receive anybody today. I think it is very frivolous of you both to ask for an interview about personal problems when the doctor is worried out of his mind,” said Mrs. Gambit with her tightlipped smile.
“This is urgent,” said Georgina. “We must see him at once.”
“Nevertheless, Dr. Gambit cannot attend to personal matters today,” replied Mrs. Gambit. “I will now ask you to attend the cleaning of your own bungalows and go through the day in a controlled and orderly manner, in spite of the sad event which has upset our usual routine.”
Obviously it was hopeless to insist further, and we were unable to talk to Dr. Gambit until the following day, after Maude’s funeral. This seemed a pity, as they would no doubt have all the trouble of digging her up again, but there was no more we could do.
In the meantime we walked around the garden discussing the whole affair from every possible angle.
“Who would ever have dreamed Maude was really a man in disguise?” I asked Georgina. “All those cami-knickers and dainty blouses. Aren’t you surprised out of your life?”
“I am not surprised at all,” said Georgina. “I knew Maude was really a man the moment she arrived.”
“How could you conceivably have known that?” I asked in astonishment. “She looked more like a woman than any of us.”
“I knew Arthur Somers when he had a curio shop in New York,” said Georgina. “But there was no reason on earth why I should give away his little secret, seeing that he never did me any harm in his life. Why he should have chosen such an awful name as Maude was his own business.”
“But why should he shut himself up in an old ladies’ home?” I asked. “Surely he could have found something more amusing. He had a little money of his own, I believe.”
“Well, since you know the kernel of the story I might as well tell you the whole thing. It won’t do poor Arthur any harm now.
“Years ago, Arthur Somers bought a very small shop on Eighth Avenue which he filled with all sorts of repulsive garbage that he called curios; I used to live next door, with the Abyssinian I told you about. So I used to pop in now and again and chat with Arthur about my little troubles, and we became quite friendly. After a while I learnt that our Arty’s antiques were just a front for a small underground business. He sold tiny pink or blue pincushions covered with lace and stuffed with marijuana.
“It took me a long time to find out why his clients, who were often brawny deck hands, went in for so many dainty needlework accessories. Arthur made the pincushions himself. That was how he came to be so handy with a needle. He had a very cosy little business. Lots of people enjoy smoking marijuana, it cheers them up.
“One fine day he rented one of the three rooms over the shop to a lady landscape painter called Veronica Adams, yes, the same Veronica Adams that now inhabits the cement boot near the toadstool where the Marquise lives. She still goes on painting all those yards of toilet paper. Well, at that period she was a fine figure of a woman and Arthur fell madly in love with her. He didn’t even collect the rent. The romantic attachment must have made Arthur careless, because he started selling pink pincushions to the New York police by mistake. Things began to get very difficult and Arthur would no doubt have gone to Sing Sing or somewhere like it if he had not been tipped off in time by Nut-Eyed Johnson, who ran a speakeasy in Greenwich Village. So Arthur and Veronica skipped over the border and ran a night club in Laredo. Veronica painted her landscapes whenever she h
ad any free time. She also went in for Saturday Night Strip Tease when there were enough clients. I never actually saw her myself, but it is quite a thought if you look at her now. She must have worn ostrich feathers and beads. I believe Arthur confected the costumes.
“So, there they were, as long as Veronica’s figure was able to attract clients. Later on they were able to retire, and after spending some years in the Argentine they came here. Arthur thought a home for senile ladies was a tasteful end to a rather active life. Poor Arthur never bargained at having to share a bungalow with Mrs. Van Tocht. That was a sad blow, but he got used to it eventually. He always made a great point of the virtues of modesty so Mrs. Van Tocht, nosey as she is, never found out the secret. Up till now anyway. That is a schematic history of the life of Arthur Somers, who never expected to get murdered in a home for old ladies, although he might very well have been murdered almost anywhere else.”
Georgina seemed saddened as she thought backwards, and I made an effort to change the subject. “I wonder what marijuana tastes like?” I asked, but Georgina had not heard. Perhaps she was thinking about Arthur and Veronica Adams. Maybe she was thinking about the Abyssinian.
Arthur or Maude’s funeral was a rather hurried affair. No relations came, so it was only attended by Dr. and Mrs. Gambit. Nobody found out what they thought about Arthur or Maude being a man. They never mentioned this in front of the community. Veronica went on painting on the toilet rolls. She was so bent one could not see her face or guess if she suffered from the loss of her old lover.
Personally I spent a very bad night, worrying alternately about what I should tell Dr. Gambit and quaking with apprehension when I thought about the sinister plot of Natacha and Mrs. Van Tocht. One would not have expected these kinds of problems in a home for senile old ladies.
Dr. Gambit received Georgina and me shortly before lunchtime. His plump face looked unusually grey and he twitched nervously.
“Really,” he told us irritably. “Any kind of general advice on the Work can be got from Mrs. Gambit. I am excessively occupied. Please come to the point immediately.”
“Easy,” said Georgina with her usual courage. “Maude Somers was murdered, she never had cirrhosis of the liver.”
Dr. Gambit gave something like a hoarse squeak then, recovering himself, said: “Georgina, you must work strenuously to overcome your diseased imagination.”
“Diseased imagination be damned!” said Georgina. “Just listen to Mrs. Leatherby’s story about what she saw through the kitchen window.”
So I told my story.
“Now,” said Dr. Gambit, “if you have quite finished. I may say that I have never heard such a scurrilous piece of defamation in my entire life. I am shocked above all at Georgina, who has been in the Work now for some years. You are both prey to diseased imagination, one of the most deep-rooted vices of the human creature. I will organize some private exercises for you both, in order that you may overcome this terrible psychological sickness.”
“You must be mad,” said Georgina angrily. “You sit there squeaking about psychology while we all might be poisoned at any meal. Van Tocht and Natacha ought to be put in the electric chair.”
“That,” said Dr. Gambit rising from his chair, “will be quite sufficient Mrs. Sykes. I will see that you are given a sedative.”
“What about the rat poison that Mrs. Gambit bought for Natacha?” I asked. “Surely you will at least ask her to account for that.”
“Mrs. Gonzalez,” said Dr. Gambit with dignity, “is a most remarkable woman, with a very high degree of extrasensory powers. It would be impossible for either you or Georgina Sykes to understand the delicate mechanism of her mind. This abusive gossip which you have invented only shows that you are fermenting with Envy.
“And now I will bid you good day. Mrs. Gambit will give you a sedative.” He opened the door and pushed us out of the study.
Georgina and I had imagined all kinds of reactions, but we were entirely unprepared for a wall of total disbelief. We had nothing at all to say for almost five minutes. The idea of approaching Mrs. Gambit with our account of the murder seemed hopeless.
All during lunch I kept giving Mrs. Van Tocht and Natacha surreptitious glances; Georgina and I ate practically nothing. It did not seem safe.
•
In the afternoon I was told that I had a visitor and I hurried into the parlour reserved for weekday callers. My surprise and delight were unbounded when I saw Carmella, looking very modish in a long tweed dress.
Carmella’s telepathy had told her that something was amiss. She had dreamt about me doing a Viennese waltz with an officer.
“Dancing in dreams means either occult power or trouble,” she told me. “So I knew you must be in some sort of trouble.”
I took Carmella to my favourite place, the bee pond, and there I poured out the whole story of how poor Maude-Arthur had been murdered by mistake, and how we feared that mistake might be rectified at almost any moment.
“I will give a solution in a few moments,” said Carmella, who was rummaging in a large covered basket that she had brought. “In the meantime I had better give you the chocolate biscuits and the port, before anybody comes. I put the port in a hot water bottle, in case anybody might examine the basket. I also have a large file, in case there were iron bars. There don’t seem to be any, but you never know. You might be attacked, and then it would be very useful.”
“How very kind of you Carmella. I wish I had something to give you too, but we never go out.”
“Never mind,” said Carmella. “The cats are well, and so your only worry as far as I can see is the fact that you might get murdered any moment, either by error or design, and from your point of view it would come practically to the same thing. Of course you must warn every possible victim in the place. And then, since Dr. Gambit refuses to take any action, you must all make a hunger strike.”
This was a really wonderful idea, although it was not inconceivable that Dr. and Mrs. Gambit might sit and tranquilly watch us all starve to death. I told Carmella my doubts.
“You have no need to worry. I shall give the story to the newspapers if worst comes to worst.”
I could see the headlines. “Old Ladies’ Home Strewn with Skeletons,” or something like that, in Spanish. Not a pleasant thought, and hardly a solution from our point of view. However being poisoned was worse perhaps than dying of starvation. And the latter usually had a simple remedy, since we lived in a place where food could be obtained. I told Carmella that I thought a hunger strike was an excellent plan.
“You call a general meeting at midnight by torchlight,” said Carmella, “and tell everybody that they are menaced by a mad murderess who will stop at nothing to claim her victim. Then you give out rations of the chocolate biscuits I brought you. That ought to keep seven or eight people alive for almost a week. By that time Dr. Gambit will have capitulated.”
“Supposing that Dr. Gambit simply sits and watches us starve to death?” I asked.
“Then,” said Carmella, “you simply tell him that I am in possession of all the facts, and that if I do not get a letter from you within ten days I shall make the whole matter public.”
“I must take care that Mrs. Van Tocht and Natacha don’t get at the chocolate biscuits,” I told Carmella.
“We will bury those under the floor boards of your room,” replied Carmella promptly. “Let us do that at once, I am anxious to see the Lookout you live in, with the false furniture.”
During the walk to my Lookout Carmella examined the other abodes with curiosity. “In spite of your letter,” she remarked, “reality almost surpasses artistic description. Why are they made into such surpassingly horrible shapes? They spoil the garden which would look really beautiful and restful otherwise.”
“Dr. Gambit chooses each bungalow according to what he calls the azimuth vibrations from the lower nature; I got the L
ookout because it was the only vacancy left. Mrs. Gambit says I deserve to live in a boiled cauliflower, but they didn’t have one made.”
“What a diabolical idea,” said Carmella. “They must be sadistic.”
“We have to watch the workings of our own nasty nature,” I continued, warming to the subject. “Dr. Gambit says the only way to salvation is Self Observation. We also do some very complicated exercises.”
Having arrived at the Lookout, we carefully closed the door. There were no keys, so we barricaded it with a chair. Then, hanging a cover over the window, we set to work on a loose floor board. This was not too difficult, owing to the decrepit state of the bungalow.
“Now I must go,” said Carmella. “They might get suspicious if we stay shut up in here for too long. Remember all the details for the hunger strike. The meeting must be at midnight. If you can obtain a flag of skull and crossed bones it would be a great help. You can improvise torches from willow and sheets torn into strips and dipped in oil. If possible use snake oil, the odour is very stimulating.
“Once everybody is informed that there are two poisoners at large and that they are likely to die in frightful convulsions after any meal you will find them all happy to collaborate. Choose a secluded spot in the garden. The bee pond would be well hidden from the house and from observation of the murderesses.
“This is of course a kind of mutiny, and if you are discovered by the authorities they might turn machine guns on you. An armoured car would be most adequate, or even a small tank, although there might be some difficulties in getting these. You would be obliged to ask the collaboration of the army. I am not sure if they lend out tanks, although they might have an old one. In any case the meeting should take place with the greatest secrecy. If you can get people to come hooded it would be better, because then they would not be recognized unless captured and tortured.”
The Hearing Trumpet Page 12
