The Grindle Nightmare

by Q. Patrick

  She shook her head, smiling faintly.

  “No, I’ll be all right. Was Peter badly hurt?”

  “Only a broken leg. I’m more worried about Mark.”

  “Let’s go and find him together.” In the glare from the burning barn her eyes were shining. “I think it was one of the bravest things I have ever seen.”

  A little stab of envy passed through me, and I wished that it had been I who had won Valerie’s praise by thus risking my life.

  “Good old Mark,” I muttered as we started toward the Baines’ cottage. “Just like him to save the horses first!”

  Chapter VI

  “It will soon be just a simple process of elimination.” Bracegirdle was puffing at his pipe in my office at Rhodes a few days after the burning of Seymour’s barn.

  “You mean that if he goes on long enough you’ll eventually get alibis for everyone else?”

  The deputy nodded. “Yes. That’s the way I’m working now. Just on the alibis.”

  “Then you’re presuming that one person is responsible for everything?”

  “I can’t see any other way to figure it, Dr. Swanson. Of course, he’s as crazy as a coot—and cunning as a fox—but even a crazy person can’t be in two places at once.”

  “A case of ‘never mind the character and stick to the alleyby, Samivel’.”

  Bracegirdle smiled and opened his notebook.

  “Now, here,” he began, “is a list of the possibles in Grindle Valley.”

  I noticed with amusement that Toni, Valerie and myself were down with the rest.

  “As I told you before,” he continued, “no one really had an alibi for the time Polly Baines disappeared because no one knows exactly when it happened. The same applies to Baines. He may have been killed while you were playing bridge at Mr. Alstone’s, in which case we could rule out Miss Middleton, Franklin, Seymour and yourself. But unfortunately, the medical evidence is not exact as to the time of death, and it may have happened after you left. Then your alibis are in most cases only supported by the statement of one other person.”

  “I see.”

  “As for Mrs. Tailford-Jones’ marmoset and Bill Strong’s goose, we’re not going to get much from them except corroborative evidence. They prove, if we need any proof, that these murders are the work of a crazy person.”

  “And Mr. Alstone’s setter?” I put in suddenly. “Still no news on that?”

  Bracegirdle’s face darkened. “I was going to keep that matter to myself. There’s enough uneasiness in the valley already without adding to it. However, I might as well tell you. One of my men found it yesterday.”

  “Dead?”

  He nodded.

  “The same old way?”

  “Yes, the same old way. Mr. Alstone has been informed. We can do no more.” He cleared his throat and smiled wearily. “Now, with regard to Miss Middleton’s dog; we can rule out Mrs. Middleton, Miss Valerie and yourself.” “And Dr. Conti and the Goschens, surely?”

  Bracegirdle did not reply for a moment. He was busy relighting his pipe.

  “We—ll, I’m not so sure. Mind you, I’m not suggesting anything, but if we’re to do this thing right, we’ve got to note down every possibility. My understanding is that the dog was already outside at the time of the Goschens’ arrival. And Dr. Conti went out alone to find it. He was gone for some time.”

  I grinned.

  “Very pretty! But you’ve forgotten the high spot—the face at the window. We were all in the room when we saw that.” “No. I haven’t forgotten the face at the window, but you can’t depend on things like that. You see, any face, even your own mother’s, can look unrecognizable and horrible when it’s pressed against a pane and seen from inside a lighted room. It might have been the murderer, but then again it might just have been one of the neighbors having a peek in. You know how things are in the valley—everybody on edge and inquisitive.”

  “You’re not taking any chances, are you, Bracegirdle?”

  “Can’t afford to. Now, when it comes to the barn, things get a bit easier. You see, we’re almost certain that someone set fire to it because several large cans of kerosene were missing from Alston’s cellar. And we can also make a pretty good guess that it was done while you were all at the Middletons’.”

  “So that gives an alibi for the Goschens, the Middletons, Dr. Conti and me.”

  He nodded. “Yes, and also to young Gerald Alstone and his friend, Peter Foote. Their car broke down on the Lampson road and it took over an hour to fix. I’ve seen the mechanic at the garage. That’s why they arrived so late for the fire.” “How about the others?”

  “Well, the old man was in the house, so he said. But it’s hardly likely he’d fire his own barn, unless, of course, it was for the insurance. Franklin was working in his outside carpenter’s shop, but no one saw him go in or come out. Mrs. Tailford-Jones was at home, so she says, and the Colonel had motored to Lampson. I can’t check up yet on either of them, though I do know that Mrs. Tailford-Jones took the roadster out some time during the evening and she was seen to enter the Alstones’ drive. But she didn’t call at the house.”

  “I can’t see Roberta spoiling her fine clothes with cans of kerosene!”

  “I can see that woman doing anything.” Bracegirdle’s honest blue eyes opened wider and then narrowed. “What do you make of her?”

  “Oh, she’s just a small time gold-digger who had the bad luck to select an—er—inadequate mate.”

  “How d’you mean—inadequate?”

  “War-wounds mostly, poor devil. He was blown up at Belleau Wood and lost his matrimonial prospects. And then he lost all his money in ’29. The first was bad enough for Roberta, but the second was a real tragedy.”

  “Well, you have got some queer people living in Grindle. Take Franklin Alstone—”

  “Oh, he’s the victim of another misalliance. He married a girl in a drug-store when he was quite a kid, and his father made him divorce her because there was insanity in her family. At least, that’s the excuse Seymour made. She still lives in Lampson and her reputation’s none too sweet.”

  For a few moments Bracegirdle smoked reflectively without speaking. At length he came out with:

  “I don’t want to sound insulting, Dr. Swanson, but from an ordinary citizen’s viewpoint I’d say that you and Miss Middleton are about the only two people in the neighborhood you could describe as really sane and normal.”

  I laughed. “Come, Bracegirdle, it’s not so bad as all that!”

  “Well,” he persisted, “would you, as a doctor, be willing to take the stand and certify to the sanity of the others?”

  “I’m not an alienist, but if I were, I certainly wouldn’t describe any of them as homicidal lunatics.”

  “None the less, someone has committed a series of outrages. That someone is a living human being. All we can hope for is that eventually we shall get him by eliminating everyone else.”

  I smiled a trifle grimly. “If he goes on much longer there won’t be any of us left to eliminate.”

  “That’s where you hit the nail on the head, Dr. Swanson. There’s real danger at present in Grindle—not only for the livestock and pets but for the inhabitants, too. I can’t get Mr. Alstone to realize it. He pooh-poohs all my suggestions and tries to act as though nothing, unusual has happened.”

  “Yes, he’s being a regular Pollyanna. All is for the best in this best of all possible valleys. You know, of course, that he’s giving a big supper party on Saturday to be followed by his yearly coon-hunt?”

  Bracegirdle remarked that he had not heard about it.

  “Well, everyone’s going, but we’re all profoundly shocked—or pretend to be. It’s an annual event and this year, I suppose, Seymour is particularly anxious to prove that he’s in love and charity with everyone—except the coons! Bad taste, of course, but we don’t argue with the decrees of Seymour. Besides, he provides such excellent food. Last year it was lobster newburg!”

  I went
home shortly after Bracegirdle had left. On my way I called in to see Mark. He had been pretty badly burned on the right arm and thigh by a falling rafter, and there were other abrasions on his body which he seemed unwilling to explain. After terrifying threats of sepsis and gangrene, I had persuaded him to spend a few days in bed.

  It was almost dark when I climbed up to his greenhouse bedroom. The invisible flowers greeted me with a great wave of scent. It was like walking into a perfume store where all the bottles had been smashed. In the obscurity I could make out the vague form of a table piled high with bunches of grapes and unopened cartons of cigarettes. They were, I suppose, inadequate tributes to his heroism from the neighbors. But the hero himself was not there. The bed was empty and the long attic deserted. Feeling considerably irritated, I descended to the ground floor.

  Just as I was threading my way through the cages of foxes, skunks and other vermin, I heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Mark was stepping across the threshold and, in his hand, he had something which I could just make out as a watering can.

  “Well, Mark,” I began in the stern voice of a family physician, “what have you to say for yourself?”

  He came up to me, his eyes seeming to gleam in the darkness like an owl’s.

  “I’ve been takin’ it easy, Doc, like you told me.”

  “But you’re not taking it easy now. You might get those burns infected if you don’t take care.”

  “It’s for them flowers,” he said resentfully. “They’ve a right to live just as much as you or me.”

  He pushed past and began to swing himself up the ladder. I followed to the upper room.

  “Well, Mark, you can get on with your watering when I’m through. I want to dress that arm.”

  Reluctantly, he put down the watering can and, pulling off his shirt, lay on the bed. I lit the three candles that stood on the table.

  “I see everyone’s been sending you presents,” I began fatuously, as I produced bandages and lint. “If it hadn’t been for you—”

  He turned to me, the candlelight throwing queer shadows across his face.

  “Them were beautiful horses, Dr. Swanson. I didn’t know they were in that barn. Some days I used to feed ’em when the stableman was away.”

  “I saw Peter Foote at the hospital today,” I remarked. “He’ll be in bed for at least two weeks. He asked me to tell you how grateful he was.”

  Mark did not reply. I must have been hurting him more than I thought, for just then I caught a glimpse of his face. It was contorted with pain, and, try as I would, I could not get another word from him.

  When I left, he was sprinkling water over his beloved flowers.

  On the following day, the weather, which had been exceptionally warm, began to show signs of breaking up. By Saturday, the night for which the coon-hunt had been scheduled, there was a definite hint of snow in the air. All day the sky had been a jaundiced yellow, and by four o’clock in the afternoon, it was almost as dark as night.

  I had been kept later than Toni at the hospital and by the time I got home he was dressed in breeches and leather jacket, and ready for the fray. He was pale and moody, as he had been ever since the accident to Valerie’s dog. He seemed to have taken it very hard. Even now that Sancho was well on the way to recovery, my room-mate persisted in his refusal to discuss the matter.

  To my surprise he held in his hand a wing of chicken which he was eating with a hunk of bread.

  “’Fraid you won’t get enough to eat?” I commented.

  He looked at me a moment as though he were about to say something. Then he turned away.

  “I’m not going there to eat,” he said drily. “Incidentally, you’ll be late if you don’t hurry up and get ready. I’m taking Valerie in my car.”

  I was, apparently the last to arrive at the Alstones’. Practically all the automobiles in the neighborhood were drawn up outside the front door. I had to go right round the house and down a little side-drive that ran behind the stable before I could find room to park. Even here, there was another car standing close up against the stable wall. I backed in and, as I switched off the ignition and stepped out, I noticed idly that it was Toni’s. He and Valerie must have taken their time driving up from the Middletons’.

  It was a most pretentious party. Old Alstone had spread himself. The enormous reception room was a blaze of lights, and there seemed to be servants everywhere handing round exotic dishes. The greater part of the guests were clustered about the buffet at the far end of the room, their rough hunting costumes curiously out of place amongst all this heavy splendor. Every one of our friends was there, except, of course, Peter Foote who was still in hospital, and Mrs. Middleton who had kept with surprising meticulousness her vow never again to darken the door of her brother-in-law.

  Franklin was scurrying about, looking rather apologetic and pressing people to glasses of lemon- and orangeade. Roberta, noble but a trifle overstuffed in a new pair of riding breeches, was making hay with a group of young men whom I recognized as medical students from Gerald’s class at the university. Seymour, of course, was much in evidence. He strolled around the room being polite, yet preserving his usual harsh aloofness.

  I saw him bearing down on me, and, feeling incapable of coping with him on an empty stomach, I hurried to the buffet in search of refreshment and Valerie. On my way I bumped into Edgar Tailford-Jones who was taking little rabbit bites at a sandwich and throwing glances at his wife. He started to say something, but at that moment I spotted Valerie and, smiling vaguely, left him once more alone with his thoughts and his sandwich.

  “Hello, Doug, do have one of these squabs!”

  Valerie was smiling at me and holding out a plate.

  “What an orgy!” I remarked.

  “Yes, I’m making an absolute pig of myself.”

  “Where’s Toni?”

  She looked up at me, her blue eyes serious.

  “I don’t know. I’ve hardly seen him since we got here. I don’t think he’s well.”

  “Why, what’s the matter?”

  “Gone on a hunger strike. I did a real Circe act tempting him, but he just shrugged his shoulders and walked away.”

  I was about to reply when the Goschens came up, Millie ravenous and full of scandal, Charlie redfaced and racy.

  “My dear,” said Millie, grabbing at random among the dishes. “Have you ever seen anything so awful as Roberta! She looks like the winning of Barbara Worth.”

  “All the same she’s making a big hit with the boys,” put in Charlie, grinning. “I’d like to see you get away with it at her age.”

  “Medical students!” snorted Millie. “When I get to her age even I will be able to make a medical student. They see nothing year in year Out but a few angular nurses—all elbows and antiseptic.”

  We went on chatting and eating, yet in spite of the glitter and gaiety, the party lacked something. I suppose that was only to be expected, for the germ of suspicion had taken root among us. We all felt that somewhere—perhaps in our midst—was a homicidal maniac, someone with whom we might, even now, be chatting and eating.

  I know that I personally was thankful when Gerald appeared to announce that everything was ready for the hunt. Millie emptied the contents of a small dish of candy into her pocket and smiled at me apologetically. After furtive gulps from pocket flasks, well concealed from the eye of our host, the guests started pouring out to the hall.

  Ever since my arrival I had been unable to locate Toni. Now, as I strolled to the door with Valerie and the Gos chens, I caught a glimpse of him slipping out in front of us among a crowd of medical students. I flashed a look at Valerie, and for a moment her eyes met mine, worried and questioning.

  It was very cold outside. Most of the women had put on gloves and extra sweaters. Even I found my leather coat none too warm. We were all gathered around Alstone on the strip of grass that led down to the barn. I thought it rather an unfortunate spot to have chosen, because all the time that Seymour deliver
ed his little speech of instruction and handed out the flashlights and guns, the broken silhouette, of the building reared up behind us as a kind of memorial to past horrors and a warning of unpleasant possibilities in the future.

  “… If anyone loses the way and is unable to catch up with the others, the house is open, and he may keep himself comfortable there until our return.”

  Seymour made a curt gesture toward the man with the coon dogs, and the hunt was up.

  Valerie, the Goschens and I kept together in front as the party moved down the slope and out into the open country. It was a dark night and the air was gravid with unfallen snow. We could see practically nothing beyond the bright circles of light made by our pocket torches. From somewhere in front of us came the grunting and panting of the coon dogs which Seymour had hired for the occasion. Millie switched her torch on to them, and for a moment their chestnut coats gleamed vividly.

  “Beauties!” she exclaimed. “Isn’t it all thrilling? Murders or no murders, I’m going to enjoy myself tonight.”

  Nothing particularly exciting happened for the first hour. Coon-hunting can be a slow business. We roamed around the countryside for miles, crossing hedges, creeks and strips of woodland. It was interesting to catch the outline of all the familiar landmarks under these unfamiliar circumstances—interesting, too, to see the faces of one’s neighbors as, every now and then, they passed through one’s own little circle of light. During those first sixty minutes I must have bumped into practically everyone—Roberta, her face puffed and heavy in this unflattering illumination; Gerald, pale and nervy; Edgar, eager and with a strange gleam in his eye. There was something rather uncanny about these encounters. Everyone was tense and they seemed somehow to charge the atmosphere around them with uneasy electricity. They did not wish to admit it, but one felt that they were all waiting and wondering. Valerie alone, in that strange assembly, seemed utterly sane. Most of the time she was by my side, calm, poised and absolutely right.