Time to Die

by Hilda Lawrence

  a time to die

  Other Dover Books by Hilda Lawrence

  Blood upon the Snow

  Death of a Doll

  A Mark East Mystery

  DOVER PUBLICATIONS, INC.

  Mineola, New York

  Copyright

  Copyright © 1945 by Hilda Lawrence

  All rights reserved.

  Bibliographical Note

  This Dover edition, first published in 2018, is a newly reset, unabridged republication of the work originally printed by Simon & Schuster, New York, in 1945.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Lawrence, Hilda, author.

  Title: A time to die / Hilda Lawrence.

  Description: Dover edition. | Mineola, New York : Dover Publications, Inc., 2018. | Series: A Mark East mystery

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018013127| ISBN 9780486827605 | ISBN 0486827607

  Subjects: | GSAFD: Detective and mystery stories.

  Classification: LCC PS3523.A9295 T56 2018 | DDC 813/.54—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018013127

  Manufactured in the United States by LSC Communications

  82760701 2018

  www.doverpublications.com

  “For everything there is a season, and

  a time for every purpose under heaven;

  a time to be born, and

  a time to die. . . .”

  Ecclesiastes

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Death of a Doll

  Chapter One

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  IT was five o’clock in the afternoon and the burning August sun still registered contempt for time. It sat on the top of the mountain with the arrogance of midday and sent wave after wave of killing heat down the pine covered slope to the little town at its feet. Bear River, with four thousand native souls, two hundred transient, turned for relief to the mountain on one side and the river on the other. It failed to find it.

  Mark East, sagging under the seasonal load of fishing tackle, tennis rackets, golf clubs, and suitcases, moved slowly under the limp maples of Main Street and asked himself bitterly what he was atoning for. He sidestepped panting matrons with shopping bags and cringed before the onslaughts of baby carriages helpfully pushed by hands that had clutched bottles themselves only two years before; he tangled with directionless dogs and roller-skating girls in shorts who screamed prettily when they ran him down. He hoped Mrs. Perley Wilcox, his prospective hostess, would have a tub full of cold water waiting for him, and a cold glass of something in which the water was negligible. He remembered it was Friday and knew he would wring her fat little neck if she gave him fried fish.

  Ten minutes before, and already it seemed like a year, he had been ejected from a Cadillac driven by friends en route to a camp farther north, a cool camp by a rushing stream. He’d been urged to continue with them, and had declined. He didn’t like to think of that. Ahead of him stretched a two-week holiday rashly arranged for when the snow was on the ground and he had been full of gratitude toward the people who had helped him on a case;* one week with Perley and Pansy Wilcox and one week with Bessy Petty and Beulah Pond.

  He stopped under a dingy awning to shift his luggage and mop his face, and idly scanned the window it pretended to shelter. It was a dusty window, filled with dead and living flies, an undecided fern, and a faded burlap screen on which were mounted about a dozen examples of the photographer’s art. A large sign announced that J. T. Spangler, Prop., specialized in cabinet photos of all occasions and took pleasure in developing, printing, and enlarging own films at reasonable rates, no job too small. Mark saluted this with a grin and went on to a second, smaller sign that further identified Mr. Spangler as the official police photographer. The grin widened happily and then slowly faded when he saw the third sign.

  It was a hand-lettered card, tacked crookedly to the top of the screen. It said—THERE IS THE PICTURE OF A MURDERER IN THIS WINDOW. GUESS WHO?

  Mark put his head in at the open door and shouted. “Buster!”

  A perspiring gnome with a bald head tottered out of the dim interior and stood blinking on the threshold.

  “Mr.—Mr. East!” he cried joyfully.

  “You ghoul,” Mark said. “How long have you been getting away with that sign?”

  Mr. Spangler looked hurt. “You oughtn’t talk to me like that, Mr. East. Here I been looking forward to the day when you’d come back, and right away you nag.”

  “Take it out. It’s indecent. Why do you want to keep that story alive?”

  Mr. Spangler lowered his voice to a confidential whine. “Business,” he said. “It’s something wonderful. You ought to see the trade that little sign brings in. All the summer people, up in the mountain hotel. They come down here with their films and they see that sign and they can’t stand it.”

  “I don’t give a—”

  “Wait, wait. The cut-rate drugstore on the corner does the same work better and cheaper, and the customers know it, but they see that little sign and they come in here. They ask me what it means and I tell ’em. I tell ’em how I did the police work on that case and all about the blood and everything, and they’re grateful. You see, they read about it in the city papers when it happened and they’re grateful to get in touch. So they give me their little jobs to do.” He gave Mark a begging look. “It don’t hurt anybody and it’s two cents every time.”

  “It hurts more than you think. It reminds too many people of things that ought to be forgotten. Take it out now, or I’ll tell the sheriff and he’ll come down and do it himself. No kidding, Buster. Crawl in that window and get busy.”

  Mr. Spangler did as he was told while Mark watched from the sidewalk. He crept into the window on all fours and reluctantly wrenched a blurred snapshot from the top section of the screen. A roving thumbtack caught him in an unexpected quarter, and he sat back on his heels and wagged a sorrowful head. He was suddenly engulfed in misery.

  That nice young feller out on the sidewalk with his pockets full of money, what did he know about two cents here and two cents there? What did he know about the cut-rate on the corner? “Take it out or I’ll call the cops!” That’s what he said, or something like that. Take it out. Like putting your hand in somebody’s purse and taking out seventy-five cents, that’s what it was like. Around seventy-five cents a week, that’s what he stood to lose. His cold beer before he went to bed, that’s what. All gone now.

  He sighed tremulously and reached for the offending sign. At the same instant the sound of a new distraction came through the open door. He turned with upraised arm to stare into the street, and his tormentor also turned.

  The vehicular traffic had wound itself around a battered Ford suddenly stationary in the center of the road. Shouts and horns clamored. A freckled boy scrambled out of the disputed car, wove steadily to Mark’s side, and seized his luggage.

  “Come on before somebody feels like they have to arrest me,” he said. “It’s pure luck me seeing you. Come on.”

  There was no question about the urgency, and the boy was his host’s son. Mark threw Mr. Spangler a backward, warning look and followed. The Ford moved off, and the traffic uncoiled.

  Mr. Spangler accepted this departure with fortitude. He eased himself out of the window and stood in the doorway while the car clattered up the street.

  “Going to have fun, I bet,” he said wistfully to nobody. “Going to have a high old time sitting down to home c
ooked meals and all that.” He blinked at the still blazing sky and turned back into the shop. A thin pork chop and two cold boiled potatoes only half filled the cracked plate on his desk. He sat down and took up the chop. “Wherever that fellow goes something always happens,” he mumbled. He ate slowly, staring into space, unmindful of passing time.

  The sun relinquished the day to twilight. The footsteps on the sidewalk grew less, and an empty sprinkling cart, drawn by two weary horses, crept down the dusty street. Mr. Spangler sat on in his dingy room, his trembling old chin resting on his chest. He snored gently. A cat stalked out of the shadows, found the chop bone on the floor, and slunk away.

  Outside a small wind blew down from the mountain and stirred the papers in the gutter. Here and there a solitary figure, drooping with the day’s heat, walked slowly nowhere. No one stopped to examine Mr. Spangler’s dark window. His little jobs, executed with pleasure, looked out at nothing.

  The place of honor in the center of the screen was held by a Polish wedding picture, brightly tinted and curling at the edges. Around it was a border of snapshots. They were the usual snapshots of boys with dogs and men with guns, fishing tackle, and horses; young and old women with picnic baskets, wild flowers, and bright, determined smiles; little girls with dolls and bicycles. There was one of a pretty girl alone, and one of a shadowy, clutching couple. There was a large trout, bedded in grass. There was also the empty space at the top, lately occupied by a murderer, a small, clean, empty space that told no tales. But the hand-lettered card still hung crookedly from its nail. It still said: THERE IS THE PICTURE OF A MURDERER IN THIS WINDOW. GUESS WHO?

  After young Floyd Wilcox had stowed Mark in the back seat he drove slowly up Main Street, blowing his horn needlessly and asking questions at the top of his lungs. It was Mr. East this, and Mr. East that; he wanted everybody in town to see who was riding with him.

  He needn’t have troubled. Bear River had watched Mark’s arrival with melancholy pleasure, and even the summer visitors had turned to stare. People always did that, and they never knew why. He wasn’t handsome. He was tall enough and broad enough, and his eyes and hair were a warm brown; but children and dogs, after the first appraising second, tried to get into his lap, and all women, whether they liked him or not, wished they’d worn something else. He looked lazy. He wasn’t.

  “I guess you were talking over old times with Mr. Spangler,” Floyd shouted fraternally. “That was some case we had, wasn’t it? Mom still has a fit when she realizes the danger I was in.” The last statement held a wistful note that seemed to call for confirmation.

  “And well she might,” Mark said obligingly. “I was pretty worried about you myself.”

  “I don’t think I know the meaning of fear,” Floyd conceded. This was accompanied by a grim look that swept the far horizon and took no account of a middle-aged pedestrian in the foreground who thought his last day had come and said so. For a few seconds Floyd looked his age, which was a small thirteen, and exhibited at least one synonym for the emotion he denied.

  Mark held his own breath. “Aren’t you a little young for a driving license?” he finally insinuated.

  Floyd looked over his shoulder and made certain all was well before he answered. “Sure. They won’t give me one. But when your Pop’s a sheriff and your passenger’s a dick they kind of leave you be. . . . Want to know what’s going on tonight?”

  “Yes and no. What?”

  Floyd swung the car around a corner and dropped to a snail’s pace. “I got an uncle on this block and he’s always watching for me to kill somebody. . . . We’re going to the Covered Dish Supper.” He saw Mark’s eyes close and added hastily, “You’ll like it. It’s fun.”

  “What—does it cover?”

  “Well, it’s for charity. Mom’s church needs coal for next winter. So all the ladies cook something and take it along, only they don’t have to cover it if they don’t want to, and they pay a quarter and eat all they want of everything else. The men and other people that don’t cook anything have to pay fifty cents, but they can eat all they want also. I’m paying for you.”

  “You are not.”

  “Well, thanks. I guess we’ll make a lot of money this year. Me and Pee Wee Peck have the lemonade concession, five cents a glass. Some other kids have the archery concession, five cents for three arrows. There ought to be some fancy shooting.”

  Mark winced. “What kind of food do we get?”

  “I don’t know. Whatever did good this year and everybody’s got a lot of. Pop’s going to drop dead when he sees I found you. He wasn’t sure when you’d get here, so he fixed it for Mom and me to go up to the church first. You and him will come later. Mom’s taking baked beans. . . . Are you hot, Mr. East? You can put your feet on that sack. It’s ice.”

  Mark sighed and moved closer to the ice. All along the street on either side men in shirt sleeves were mowing lawns and talking over hedges. Smells of frying food drifted out of open windows and mingled with the smells of fresh cut grass, dust, and hot tar. Fried fish, fried potatoes, fried onions, fried—so help him—doughnuts. He could almost see the blue smoke rising from the bubbling fat in the hot, littered little kitchens. He tried to remember what church suppers were like, covered or uncovered. He couldn’t, so he mopped his face again and silently offered his soul to any Christian woman who could and would give him a cold salad full of cucumbers.

  The car hit a curbstone, bounced, and stopped. He had reached the beginning of his holiday. Perley Wilcox was coming down the garden path to meet him, his thin, tired face wreathed in smiles.

  “Well,” said Perley, “so the boy found you. He’ll make a good sheriff one of these days.” He burdened himself with Mark’s luggage and staggered into the house. “Cheer up,” he said out of the corner of his mouth. “I got something in the icebox, hidden behind the milk.”

  Floyd and Pansy, after a suitable interval, drove off importantly, hugging two bean pots. The men took over the deserted kitchen.

  “Here’s to crime,” Perley said gently, baring his teeth in his version of a snarl.

  It was nearly seven o’clock when, clean, comparatively peaceful, and almost cool, they sauntered up the street toward the open country. Perley said it was ten minutes’ brisk walk to the church grounds, out by the cemetery. Mark would remember that old cemetery, wouldn’t he? It looked different in the summer, though, almost pretty, you might say. They made it in twenty minutes.

  They saw the Covered Dish Supper long before they came to it. Late comers, clinging to plates and baskets draped with fringed napkins, scurried up the hillside, calling out excuses and explanations. They were preceded by whooping children and followed by plodding men. Farm Fords and town cars trailed each other in an orderly line. Perley counted the town cars with evident pleasure.

  “Summer people,” he said. “Hotel guests and all that. It shows a nice feeling.”

  It showed, Mark thought, a nice sense of direction about finding all you could eat for fifty cents, with altruism thrown in free.

  There was white clover in the churchyard grass, and the grounds were ringed with locust. Paper lanterns hung from the trees although it was still light. Mark drew a deep breath and counted the long tables. There were fifteen of them, and he thought he could hear them groan. He saw platters of baked ham and chicken. He loosened his belt and reached for his pocket.

  “Your money’s no good here,” Perley said.

  They found places at Pansy’s own table, where they were hovered over by plump, aproned women who rushed back and forth with laden plates and made furtive little dabs at their back hair. Mark ate steadily and contentedly, sizing up his neighbors. The regular parishioners were a well-behaved lot, inclined to spun rayon with large floral patterns; no elbows on the table, no unseemly noise, no grabbing. The summer visitors were a different breed, favoring plain cottons and no manners at all. They screamed up and down the length of the tables and snatched food from each other’s plates. It was also easy to spot the co
al committee. These sat quietly at the cashier’s table and talked in low tones while their roving eyes counted the house.

  Mark was watching the coal committee and planning an anonymous donation when he saw something that took the flavor from his food. It was a small thing but he found himself wishing his eyes had been elsewhere. A very small thing, but it struck the first false note.

  A little colored boy with clean bare feet, wearing immaculate and perfectly patched overalls, approached the cashier’s table and timidly counted out fifty cents. It must have been in pennies because it took a long time. A startled and confused woman received the money and indicated that he might wait.

  The boy stood carefully out of the way, digging his bare toes into the grass, his child’s eyes proudly taking in the scene around him. Presently he was given a full plate, and he carried this over to a tree and sat down. He rested the plate on his thin knees and began to eat. He didn’t have a fork because he didn’t need one. He could eat the fried necks and backs with his fingers.

  Mark was not the only watcher. A starched and ribboned toddler, overcome with curiosity and envy, staggered over to the boy and steadied herself with a fat hand on his shoulder while she peered down into his face. He drew back hastily, but gently; he needn’t have, because almost immediately his youthful admirer was snatched away.

  Perley looked up from his plate and followed Mark’s eyes.

  “I wonder if he paid for that?” he said uneasily.

  “Yes. . . . Who is he?”

  “He helped the sexton last winter. Shoveled coal, cleaned the walks. I guess he feels an interest. . . . Come on, eat. Short joint? Breast?”

  “No thanks.”

  The light faded slowly and people left the tables and began to walk about. One by one strangers were brought up and introduced. Mark smiled until his face was stiff. So he was the Mr. East who was over in Crestwood last winter when those terrible things happened? Well, think of that. Well, well. He shook hands like a candidate for office and explained that this was a vacation. Every time he said vacation somebody slapped him on the back and promised to kill six people before the week was out. Whenever he moved on he was followed by a few small boys. It was dark when he and Perley finally found a quiet tree and stretched out on the grass.