The Black Dream_Rue Morgue Vintage Mysteries

by Constance Little

  The Black Eye

  By

  Constance & Gwenyth Little

  The Rue Morgue Press Boulder, Colorado

  The Black Eye Copyright© 1945, 1971 Reprinted with the permission of the authors' estate.

  New material copyright © 2001 by The Rue Morgue Press

  ISBN: 0-915230-45-3

  resemblance to persons living or dead would be downright ridiculous.

  Printed at Johnson Printing Boulder, Colorado

  The Rue Morgue Press P.O. Box 4119 Boulder, CO 80306

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OE AMERICA

  About the Littles

  Although all but one of their books had "black" in the title, the 21 mysteries of Constance (1899-1980) and Gwenyth (1903-1985) Little were far from somber affairs. The two Australian-born sisters from East Orange, New Jersey, were far more interested in coaxing chuckles than in inducing chills from their readers.

  Indeed, after their first book, The Grey Mist Murders, appeared in 1938, Constance rebuked an interviewer for suggesting that their murders weren't realistic by saying, "Our murderers strangle. We have no sliced-up corpses in our books." However, as the books mounted, the Littles did go in for all sorts of gruesome murder methods—"horrible," was the way their own mother described them—which included the occasional sliced-up corpse.

  But the murders were always off stage and tempered by comic scenes in which bodies and other objects, including swimming pools, were constantly disappearing and reappearing. The action took place in large old mansions, boarding houses, hospitals, hotels, or on trains or ocean liners, anywhere the Littles could gather together a large cast of eccentric characters, many of whom seemed to have escaped from a Kaufman play or a Capra movie. The typical Little heroine—each book was a stand-alone—often fell under suspicion herself and turned detective to keep the police from slapping the cuffs on. Whether she was a working woman or a spoiled little rich brat, she always spoke her mind, kept her sense of humor, and got her man, both murderer and husband. But if marriage was in the offing, it was always on her terms and the vows were taken with more than a touch of cynicism. Love was grand, but it was even grander if the husband could either pitch in with the cooking and cleaning or was wealthy enough to hire household help.

  The Littles wrote all their books in bed—"Chairs give one backaches," Gwenyth complained—with Constance providing detailed plot outlines while Gwenyth did the final drafts. Over the years that pattern changed somewhat but Constance always insisted that Gwen "not mess up my clues." Those clues were everywhere and the Littles made sure there were no loose ends. Seemingly irrelevant events were revealed to be of major significance in the final summation. The plots were often preposterous, a fact often recognized by both the Littles and their characters, all of whom seem to be winking at the reader, almost as if sharing a private joke. Certainly there are aspects of The Black Eye that one could say defy the laws of science. You just have to accept the fact that there are different natural laws in that wacky universe created by these sisters.

  The Littles published their two final novels, The Black Curl and The Black Iris, in 1953, and if they missed writing after that, they were at least able to devote more time to their real passion—traveling. The two made at least three trips around the world at a time when that would have been a major expedition. For more information on the Littles and their books, see the introductions by Tom & Enid Schantz to The Rue Morgue Press editions of The Black Gloves and The Black Honeymoon.

  The Black Eye

  CHAPTER ONE

  The apartment house was one of those older buildings, but it had a look of dignity and reserve. There was an expanse of neatly clipped lawn at the front, edged with carefully barbered hedges, and a series of small iron balconies that decorated the facade from top to bottom were more elegant than absurd.

  The taxi man carried my bags in and surrendered them to an elderly doorman, who escorted me to the elevator. He and the elevator operator appeared to accept me tentatively—on probation pending good behavior, I thought, and I and my bags were eventually ushered into Mary's apartment on the sixth floor.

  The door closed behind me, and I stood for a moment surrounded by my luggage and fighting a chill sense of disappointment. I had hoped the place would be small and cheerful, and instead I looked down the length of a dark, unfriendly hall, which widened into a foyer at the end, where I could see heavy drapes hanging in the two archways. The hall was lined with closed doors, and I presently moved forward and began to open them. There were four bedrooms—one large one, with its own bath, which I supposed was Mary's room, and a second bathroom opening from the hall.

  I closed Mary's room again and chose the most cheerful of the three smaller bedrooms for myself. It had a dull green carpet, mahogany furniture, and sun-yellow drapes—and I hoped that the drapes would cheer me up in the morning and fortify me for the gloomy hall.

  I arranged my bags, unpacked a few things, and then washed up a bit and combed my hair. I was still feeling depressed, and it took a certain amount of self-urging to get myself to explore the rest of the apartment.

  The foyer opened into a very large living room and a good-sized dining room, and the kitchen behind was narrow but long. The living room had huge windows and a pair of glass doors that opened on to one of the iron balconies.

  I slumped down into an armchair and wondered why I felt so gloomy. After all, I had come out here for two weeks of rest and quiet—and if the apartment was large and somber, at least it seemed a perfect spot for solitude. I wondered idly what the rent was and how Mary was able to afford it. She had told me that she was broke—but that was an elastic expression, and I supposed that what I would call broke would be destitution to Mary. She intended spending the summer at her cottage in the country, but she was in retirement, with a broken heart, because her husband had flitted off with the woman next door.

  I sighed and pulled myself out of the armchair. The living room seemed to frown at me from all its four walls, so I went through the glass door and out onto the iron balcony. I found that it was narrow but long, and neatly halved by a section of iron grillwork that was the same height as the railing. One half was at Mary's disposal, apparently, and the other half belonged to the adjoining apartment. It was understandable, I thought, grinning at the inadequate little barrier, that Mary's Homer had run off with the woman in the next apartment. Practically sitting in each other's laps, like that—if they used the balcony much—they'd have either to start a fight or cook up a romance. It was a wonder that Mary hadn't run off with the man next door—except that Mary was a practical soul, and if she'd wanted to do any flitting, she'd have had it, properly sanctioned in the courts first.

  An elderly woman emerged from the other apartment onto her end of the balcony and, after inspecting the lawn below for a suitable interval, pretended to catch sight of me for the first time.

  "Oh—oh, good afternoon."

  I responded in kind, and she asked brightly. "Is Mary back?"

  "No."

  "I see. She's still at the cottage, then?"

  "Yes."

  "She hasn't sublet the apartment?"

  "No."

  "Oh—well—you're a friend of hers then. Staying long?"

  "No."

  "Well, of course accommodations are so hard to get, right now, I suppose you're glad to have the use of the apartment for a while?"

  I sighed and reflected that perseverance such as hers really ought to be rewarded. So many people are sissy enough to give up after the first try.

  "I'm very grateful to Mary," I explained. "I live in New York,
and I met her there, last week, when we were both shopping. I wanted a complete rest for two weeks—it was an unexpected vacation—and I hadn't been able to get accommodations anywhere. I told her about it, and she suggested that I come here. She said it would be quiet and restful—that's what I'm hoping for."

  "Oh, my dear!" the woman protested. "A young girl like you! You should be looking for gaiety—not quiet."

  A man came through the glass doors behind her—a tall man, and unusually good-looking, and I wondered if he could possibly be the husband from whom the woman had run away—and with Mary's old Homer, too.

  "My son-in-law, John Emerson," the woman announced with a certain amount of pride. "I am Mrs. Budd."

  I nodded, and admitted that I was Eugenia Gates.

  Mrs. Budd badly wanted to ask who Eugenia Gates might be, and while she considered ways and means John Emerson asked negligently, "Is Mary back?"

  Mrs. Budd told him she was not, and that I was staying in the apartment by myself. "She wants peace and quiet, John."

  John raised his nicely shaped eyebrows, and I sat down on one of the chairs and put my feet up on the other.

  "My dear," Mrs. Budd said, "I'm afraid Mary wouldn't like that—I mean your feet on that chair, you know she keeps everything so exquisite."

  I, took my feet off, removed my shoes, and put my feet back again. "Is that all right?" I asked.

  John Emerson gave a short laugh. "Probably not—but Mary isn't here, and we won't tell on you. Do you hear, Mother?"

  "No, no, I shan't say a word," Mrs. Budd said—and proceeded to blackmail me. "Do you live with your parents?"

  "I'm an orphan," I said meekly.

  "Are you in business?"

  I nodded. "I'm a secretary. My father was a Kentucky colonel who lost his vast estates—so I had to go to work."

  Mrs. Budd stared, but Emerson gave me a cool glance and observed, "You seem to have lost your Southern accent."

  I ignored him and gave my attention to Mrs. Budd.

  "My mother's blood was bluer than her native grass, and we feel that she really died of a broken heart when she had to give up her stables."

  Someone called from inside their apartment, and Mrs. Budd reluctantly tore herself away but called back over her shoulder, "Don't go—I'll be right back."

  There was a moment of silence, and then John Emerson stirred and lit a cigarette. "Allow me to pinch-hit for my mother-in-law. Now whom do you secretary?"

  "A busy executive. He's busy fishing and golfing most of the time, but right now he's substituting for me at the office. I hope he doesn't get things into too much of a muddle."

  "Did you ever hear of modesty?" he asked, laughing a little.

  "I heard all about it. I had an aunt who had it quite badly."

  I lay back and closed my eyes after that, and when the silence had lasted for some time I opened them again and saw that he had gone.

  I went contentedly off to sleep, without further interruption, and when I woke up again it was dark. I yawned once or twice, and then pulled myself up from the chair and stumbled through the glass doors into the living room. I barked my shins three times before I found a light switch, and then I regarded the vast, imposing room with a shudder. I went through to the hall, and while I fumbled for the light switch there I tried fuzzily to remember which door led into the bedroom I had chosen for myself. I found the switch at last, and as the light glowed into an ornate fixture in the ceiling someone inserted a key in the front door.

  I stood absolutely still and forgot to breathe as the door swung slowly inward—and then caught up with two or three quick gasps when a large soldier walked himself into the hall. He was carrying a bag, and when he caught sight of me he dropped it to the floor with a thump.

  I took an involuntary step backward and asked sharply, "Who are you?"

  "Sergeant Kendall Smith of the Army," he said formally, and removed his cap. "Mrs. Fredon was kind enough to offer me the use of her apartment during my furlough."

  CHAPTER TWO

  I LOOKED, at the solid khaki length and breadth of the man and stammered, "But you can't—there's been a mistake of some sort. I mean she told me to use the place for my vacation, and I'm here for two weeks."

  "Don't let it upset you," he said kindly. "There's plenty of space. Bedrooms for all."

  I collapsed onto one of the hall chairs and had a moment of utter despair. I'd have to get out, of course—every minute of a soldier's furlough is precious, with no time to spare—but I hated to think of dragging back to New York. It was unlike Mary to create a mess of this sort, and I felt a spasm of anger for her.

  The sergeant picked up his bags and said, "Don't look so gloomy—we soldiers need plenty of cheer in our dull lives. We can both stay here, and I'll go out and sleep on the lawn at night—be more homelike for me. When's dinner ready?"

  I took a long breath and stood up. "Dinner isn't. But if you're hungry, I am, too, so let's go out and find a hash house somewhere."

  "Good enough," said Sergeant Smith without undue enthusiasm. "Of course, when I saw you, I had hopes—but never mind about that. I'll just go and wash the stains of travel away."

  He showed that he knew the place by flinging his bag into one of the bedrooms and then making straight for the hall bathroom. I sat down again and studied the toes of my shoes and wondered whether there was any way out except the dreary trip back to New York.

  A telephone shrilled suddenly, and I got up and had to hunt around for a bit before I found it in a small closet at one end of the hall.

  It was Mary. "Eugenia. I've just remembered—so stupid of me—about Ken, I mean. Has he turned up yet?"

  "If you mean Sergeant Smith—yes. He's washing off the travel stains."

  "That's right. Ken Smith—such a fine boy. But of course you'll need a chaperon, so I've arranged to have Lucy stay with you."

  "Lucy Davis?" I croaked, and then cleared my throat to show I hadn't meant anything.

  "My dear, she was the only one available. I knew that she'd planned just to stay at home this summer, and she had nothing much to do—and of course she was delighted. But listen, Eugenia—I'm devoted to Lucy, and all that, but she is an incorrigible snoop, so I want you to lock my bedroom door and put the key in that desk in the hall—you'll find a little pigeonhole drawer in the top part—and then I'll know where to find it when I get back."

  I thanked her for the chaperon—not heartily, because I knew Lucy Davis all too well—agreed to take care of the bedroom situation, and then handed the phone over to Sergeant Smith, who had appeared at my side and seemed to be waiting for it. He talked and laughed with Mary for some time, while I went on into my bedroom and freshened myself up a bit. I was practically starving by that time, so I made it as short as possible, and when I came back into the hall Smith had finished with Mary and seemed to be trying to make a date with a girl named Alice. I gathered that he was having some difficulty, but he finally got it fixed for Thursday and hung up.

  He turned to me and asked cheerfully, "All ready? Then I'll leave the rest of them until I get back."

  "You'll have a busy evening."

  "Ah no." He carefully double-locked the apartment door behind us and explained as we started down the hall, "The others are easy. Alice is the popular one—and look how well I did with her. This is Monday, and I got her for Thursday."

  "Wonderful!" I murmured.

  "Oh well," he said tolerantly, "you don't know Alice, or you wouldn't be so sarcastic."

  He apparently knew the terrain well, for he led me straight to a restaurant where the proprietor greeted him like a long-lost brother. The two of them kept the conversation rolling throughout the meal, so I just sat and ate.

  We were on the way back before I remembered that I hadn't yet locked Mary's bedroom, and I wondered if Lucy had arrived in the meantime, and if she had a key to the apartment.

  She hadn't. We found her walking up and down the hall in a rage, with her face nearly as red as her cur
ls. "I don't know what you think you're doing, Eugenia Gates." she howled at me. "I come over here to do you a favor, and you keep me waiting until I've worn a path in the carpet." She glanced over my shoulder and tuned in another station. "Hello there, Ken! Darling! How are you?" And fell on his neck and kissed him.

  He backed up and said, "Lay off, Lucy. I'm practically engaged, and I'm the conventional type."

  "But, Ken—my dear!" she shrieked. "Who is it? Do tell me—I simply can't bear secrets."

  I went on into the apartment, and they followed, Lucy insisting that Ken get her a drink. She declared she knew that Mary had plenty of liquor around somewhere. Ken told her he wasn't going to touch Mary's liquor, even if he found it, and he wasn't going to look. By this time they were down in the foyer, and I realized grimly that the job of chaperon was going to fall to me, even though Lucy was at least twenty years older.

  I shrugged and, slipping into Mary's bedroom, turned on the light. She'd taken care over the furnishing, I thought, looking about—it was quite impressive. The bed dominated everything—a huge mahogany thing with a canopy, and a drawer underneath—a genuine antique, I supposed. It was set up on a low platform, in a rather regal fashion, and I went over to inspect it more closely. I saw, then, that the drawer was slightly open, and I pushed it in, and had to pull it out again to free the heavy cream-colored spread. I slid it shut once more and thought how typical it was of Mary that in her apartment even antique drawers moved smoothly in their grooves. Every time I saw her— which was, when we had lunch together in New York—she'd give me what you might call Hints to the Housekeeper—and her apartment suggested that she knew what she was talking about.

  There was a picture of Homer on the dressing table—framed in heavy silver, and certainly not turned to the wall, and I wondered whether Mary had been as hurt over his defection as I had supposed. He wasn't much to look at—even with all that sterling silver around him. Then I noticed another door in the room, but it was locked on the inside—it evidently led out into the foyer, quite near the kitchen.