The Black Dream_Rue Morgue Vintage Mysteries

by Constance Little

  I shook my head. "He and Mary had a joint account. If he'd drawn most of it out she'd have known about it and would have been satisfied that he did go off with this Betty. But she isn't satisfied, and that's why she's calling in the police."

  They both yelled and began to clamor for more information, but I told them to ask Mary about it when she arrived in the morning. This diverted them and brought forth a good deal of groaning. If Mary was arriving in the morning they would have to set to and clean up the mess right after the party, instead of being able to sleep it off first.

  "Well, anyway." Lucy said, "the Emerson maid—that little Suzy—is coming in to help, so it won't be so bad. She can clean up as she goes along, maybe."

  Ken stood up, took a last wistful glance at the empty sandwich plate, and said he thought he'd better go and dress. He brushed some crumbs from his uniform and added that it was a pity he couldn't change his suit.

  Lucy clicked her tongue in all seriousness and murmured that it was a shame, and Ken went on out into the foyer and snapped on the light. There was a moment's silence, and then he called back, "Mary's slipping. Homer's been gone at least a week, and his golf shoes are still slopping around under a chair here."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  LUCY LAUGHED. "Probably poor Mary didn't feel like touching them with a ten-foot pole. If I were in her place I'd throw them in the garbage."

  I got up and went out into the hall, feeling puzzled and a little queer. I had dusted out there in the morning, and I had seen no shoes of any sort.

  Lucy followed me, saying, "Do let's get dressed—it's late."

  I was examining the golf shoes, which stood side by side under a chair, and I said abstractedly, "But these were not here this morning, Lucy. Did you bring them out?"

  She glanced down without interest. "Of course not. They must have been there—you just didn't notice them. I don't know what Mary thinks she's doing, anyway—leaving Homer's stuff around. His old pipe is lying beside his chair in the living room, too, and he never got away with anything like that when he was home. She wouldn't let him even leave a collar button lying around."

  "But I'm telling you—these shoes were not here this morning "

  "For Pete's sake!" said Lucy in utter exasperation. "Will you come and get dressed! People will be pouring in here at any minute!"

  She swished off to her own room, and I went slowly to mine. I decided that it wouldn't take me long to dress—I had no formal clothes with me, and it was only a matter of a change, so I lay down on the bed for a while, with my arms folded behind my head.

  As a matter of fact, I was seriously considering a return to New York. There was something queer about the situation at Mary's, when she and Mrs. Budd were both so convinced that Betty and Homer had not eloped together— and for no really valid reason. Then, why should Homer's shoes and pipe suddenly appear—to say nothing about John Emerson's damned black eye?

  I crossed my legs, settled my head more comfortably, and wondered what excuse I could give for leaving so abruptly. I didn't want Mary to think me ungracious, and I was pretty sure she'd be upset about it—and of course Lucy would be disappointed. She was having a wonderful time.

  Well, I thought, sighing, it's only Tuesday—I'll be seeing Mary in the morning, and perhaps I can think of a good excuse by then. I'd go back to my own apartment in New York—or even out to Aunt Martha's on Long Island—and hear about her operation again.

  The first of the guests arrived, just then, and passed down the hall with a roar, and on into the living room. I swung my feet off the bed, reached for a cigarette, and sat there wondering whether I couldn't just forget the party.

  There was the barest excuse for a knock at the door, and Sergeant Smith loomed into the room. He deposited his vast proportions on the bedspread— which still lay folded on a chair—and regarded me with a certain amount of sorrow.

  "There's something wrong with you, though it doesn't show on the outside—or not much. You're young, and you seem to be healthy, and yet a party doesn't appeal to you. Now what is it? Some sort of a neurosis? Or are you in mourning for an absent boyfriend? And that's a dumb way to mourn, anyhow."

  "What would a sergeant know about a neurosis?" I asked politely. "Never mind that. Just tell me—is it a boyfriend or isn't it?"

  "I'll tell you, if you tell me first to whom you're engaged. Not only is it necessary for Lucy to know, but I'm curious myself."

  His eyes dropped, and he studied his knuckles with a very faint smile.

  "You needn't have taken that quite so literally," he said after a moment. "I'm not actually engaged to anyone."

  "But you hope to be soon?"

  The smile became a little more definite, and he said, "Yes, that's it."

  "Alice, I suppose."

  "Good God, no!" he exploded. "I couldn't get Alice—too much competition."

  "Such a pity!" I murmured. "Has she arrived yet?"

  "Don't be naive." He got to his feet and explained, "She doesn't actually send a page boy with a trumpet on ahead of her, but she's waiting until the gang is all assembled before she makes her entrance. Like you. Now get ready, will you—and come on out."

  "All right, Pop," I agreed, putting out my cigarette. "But listen—did you put Homer's shoes under that chair in the hall?"

  He turned with his hand on the doorknob and said, "No, I didn't. Why?"

  "Well, they weren't there this morning."

  "Lucy must have done it—probably some sort of a joke, bless her little heart."

  I shook my head. "She says not."

  He considered it for a moment, with his eyes on the panels of the door, and then he shrugged. "Oh well, maybe they walked out by themselves," he said, and took himself off.

  I went along to the bathroom and then had to stay there for quite some time, because a fresh batch of guests arrived, and some of them lingered in the hall, gossiping with Lucy. It was all about somebody's baby who had caused a great to-do by turning out to be a girl instead of a boy. It seemed the mother wanted to call it Paula, Jr., while the father wanted to try again and see if he couldn't get a Paul, Jr.

  All this took considerable time, but they dispersed at last, and I was able to slip into my room, where I adorned myself in the most festive garments I had with me.

  As it happened, my entrance, coincided with that of Alice—but I was mere Stardust. She was accompanied by a sailor, two marines, and a thin civilian. The sailor looked sulky, but Alice was radiant—a nicely covered blonde, beautiful, well dressed, and with plenty of personality. I managed to stand at the entrance to the living room with her while she surveyed the throng—although she tried to push me out.

  Ken made his way swiftly through the mob, cried, "Alice!" and held out both arms.

  She caroled, "Darling! You look wonderful," threw her arms around his neck and kissed him, after which she swept on around the room with her entourage. Ken was left holding the bag with me.

  "Something wrong with that," I said dubiously. "It looked more as though you were trying to make me jealous than her."

  He said, "Ah, come and have a drink. You look very nice in your party burlap—I wish Lucy could have done me as much credit."

  I looked around hastily, and found Lucy and the yellow satin ribbon at one and the same time. It was wound around her head, with the red curls sticking out here and there. Her dress appeared to be a white lace negligee.

  "You're raving," I said. "She's very artistic. If I'd used my head I could have done as well myself. Only mine would be pale pink to match the cakes."

  "I don't know what you're talking about," he muttered vaguely, and led me to a table on which reposed several of Mary's best glasses. He supplied me with a drink and then disappeared in the middle of a group who had walked into him and carried him off.

  I found myself in the company of Mrs. Budd. We had reached chapter six of her appendectomy when John Emerson stepped in and delivered me.

  "Mother, do see whether Suzy is attending to
things properly in the kitchen. You know you are the only one who can manage her."

  Mrs. Budd glowed, patted her silk bosom, and said, "All right, dear—of course."

  She trotted off, and I glanced after her curiously, reflecting that tonight, at least, her grief for Betty seemed to be in abeyance. She appeared to think very highly of John, though.

  He offered me a cigarette, and, looking him over, I decided that there was no doubt about his being smooth. I wondered idly if I were to be his next victim and, when he threw me over, if he would tell me that I had taken the damned black eye too seriously. I looked at his eyes and saw that they were very dark and were regarding me at the moment with a faint amusement.

  "Worrying about what's going on at the office in your absence?"

  "No," I said. "I put everything out of my mind."

  "It's never a bad idea to relax once in a while." He was silent for a moment, and when he spoke again he had dropped the banter from his voice. "Is Mary coming back tomorrow?"

  I nodded. "She's not satisfied about Homer, and she wants to go to the police with it."

  "I know—Lucy was telling me." He frowned down at his cigarette and added, "I'm rather relieved, on the whole, because I'm not satisfied about Betty either. I'm convinced that she never went off with Homer—but I'd give a lot to know who it really was."

  I shook my head. "I can't see why she'd write a card and say it was Homer."

  The line of his jaw hardened, and he explained briefly. "To cover up the real culprit. I've an idea who it might be. too."

  "Well, but she'd have to know that Homer was going away at the same time—and where did he go, anyhow?"

  He shrugged it away indifferently. "Homer was a queer bird—no knowing what he had in his head. Anyway, I don't blame Mary for getting the police after him."

  I was growing tired of the subject, and by way of a diversion I remarked, "You really have the blackest eyes I have ever seen."

  To my astonishment, his face darkened to an angry red, and he said nastily, "The pupil of the eye is the only part that is actually black—the iris is never darker than a very dark brown."

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I SHRUGGED and sipped at my drink, resisting a desire to beg him to keep his shirt on. He had turned slightly away from me and was staring across the room, looking thoroughly annoyed. I glanced at him once or twice, and was just about to remind him that he had twice referred to a black eye, himself, when Alice's sailor walked in on me.

  The sailor wanted to dance. He swallowed my drink for me first and then steered me to one end of the living room, where a rug had been taken up to make a dance floor. The rest of the gang were already there, milling around, and there was not even elbow room, but the sailor nevertheless went through his extensive repertoire with ease. My part was not difficult—I could not have taken a wrong step if I would, because he firmly put me where I was supposed to go. There was only one place for my feet, and that was the spot that kept me from falling over.

  The music stopped, and everybody left the dance floor for the open spaces of the carpet—except the sailor and myself. He merely called out to Joe to put on something else, and hummed his own music in the meantime, without relaxing the death grip on me. But his eyes were following Alice.

  "Don't you think." I suggested breathlessly, "that she'd be more jealous if we were to sit on a couch while you tell me your life history?"

  "What do you mean?" he demanded, and added almost immediately, "Oh, what the hell—okay."

  He brought his routine to such an abrupt halt that I staggered, and then he led me to a small love seat. We sat down, and he draped his arm along the back and more or less loomed over me, while he endeavored to clarify his position.

  "Listen, babe, I don't have to waste time on those methods—if I want them. I just go out and get them."

  "My mistake, pal," I murmured. "I'm sorry."

  He waved an arm. "That's all right. But just don't get ideas in your head."

  "No, no—of course not."

  "Look at poor old John," he said after a moment. "Can't get over it because Betty left him."

  I took a look at poor old John, who was standing against the wall holding a drink and looking at nothing.

  "I didn't think he cared so much about that," I said tentatively.

  "Oh yes, he did," replied the sailor with a shade of reproof. "He cared a hell of a lot about Betty. He couldn't help playing around with other dames, but he never got tied up with them. I even told Betty once that she shouldn't pay attention to that stuff—but she told me to shut up."

  "Did she play around with other men?"

  "Well, I don't know, exactly," he said, squinting thoughtfully. "Betty was deep. But if she was—and she must have been—she clammed up about it."

  "She must have played around with Homer."

  He snarled disgustedly. "You or anybody can't get me to believe that."

  "Well, why did she write and say she was with him—and where is he, anyhow?"

  The sailor settled himself more comfortably and said in a voice of great earnestness, "Here's my theory. She was in up to her neck with somebody, and she found out Homer was going to skip—"

  "Why?"

  "Homer? Maybe he got sick of hanging his head out of the window every time he wanted to smoke his pipe." He interrupted himself to laugh uproariously and then went on, "I think Betty is living near some camp, pretending to be somebody's wife. She figured she might get the soldier into trouble— busted or something, if it got out—and yet they couldn't bear to be parted— so she used old Homer to cover up."

  "It still doesn't explain why Homer left," I said, shaking my head.

  The sailor ignored it. He had become very serious indeed. "Poor John, he really feels this. He loved that girl—loved her with all his heart—"

  "Don't give me that stuff," I said inelegantly. "How could he love her with all his heart and then humiliate her by playing around with all sorts of other women?"

  "They were just a series of beautiful friendships," said the sailor, and he didn't laugh, either.

  I looked around the room and caught sight of the blonde who had been in the drugstore with John Emerson. She was talking to two other women with a certain amount of animation and sparkle. I dug the sailor in the ribs and asked him to identify her.

  "Oh, her," he said without interest. "That's Mary's best friend—don't you know her? She's a widow. Nice gal."

  "One of John's flames?"

  "Yeah—sure. Only I think it's burned out."

  "Who's the current flame, then?"

  He thought it over for a while, and then shook his head. "Nope—nobody. Not for the last few months."

  "How do you know?" I persisted.

  "Poor old John's dames are always common gossip. My girlfriends always write me all the gossip, and John hasn't figured."

  "Oh. Well, what's the name of the one who has just burned out?"

  "Dotty, you mean—Dotty Manchester." He spared Dotty a glance and shook his head. "Poor old Bill Manchester—one of those eye doctors, y' know—swell practice. He got careless or something—got himself infected— up and died in a hurry."

  I said I was sorry to hear it, and then found that he had more or less forgotten me. He was looking moodily across the room at Alice, who was having what appeared to be a very serious and intimate conversation with Ken.

  "That girl, Alice," I said sorrowfully, "just doesn't care whose heart she breaks. Take any girl's sweetheart away "

  The sailor snapped back to attention. "Ken your fella? Okay—we'll soon fix that."

  He jumped up, pulled me to my feet, and began to drag me across the room. I yelled frantically, "Wait a minute—he isn't my fella!" but my voice was lost in the general uproar.

  We brought up in front of Alice and Ken and the sailor went to the point with simple candor.

  "Come on, Alice—ease off—you're breaking this little girl's heart. You come on along with me, honey."

  Alice l
ooked a little startled for a moment and then favored me with a contemptuous glance—as well she might. She gave Ken a mysterious smile that could have meant almost anything and moved off with her shining hair, her smooth silken draperies, and the sailor.

  I searched for a cigarette and something to say to Ken, and found neither.

  He looked me up and down and observed without venom. "You have a gall, lady, to be telling people that you've put a down payment on me."

  "I didn't—" I began helplessly, but he waved a huge hand and interrupted me.

  "Don't be adding more lies to all the rest. I'm nothing if not accommodating, and I'll be your boyfriend for a while. Will that make you happy?"

  "No!" I bawled. "I don't want—"

  "Tch, tch," said Ken. "Here, you come and have another drink, and you'll feel better."

  He took me by the hand and dragged me to the dining room, where he poured a drink for me. Suzy was there, flushed and perspiring, and she looked up at us, opened her mouth as though she were about to speak, and then turned away and went off into the kitchen instead.

  I sipped at my drink without enthusiasm, and then asked Ken if he knew what John Emerson meant by his "damned black eye."

  Ken looked at me blankly. " 'Damned black eye'? That punk has two damned black eyes."

  "You don't like him?"

  "No, I don't," he said firmly. "I don't like his type—although I know the women lap it up."

  "H'mm," I murmured absently, and considered approaching John Emerson and asking him quite frankly to satisfy my curiosity. I decided against it, because I felt pretty sure that he'd merely lose his temper without telling me anything.

  Instead I wandered away from Ken and sought Lucy out. I asked her, but she had no time or patience for me.

  "I don't know," she said, brushing me aside. "Don't bother me. Can't you see I'm busy?"

  She was, too—with Mr. Boxton, so I left her as requested.

  I was feeling stubborn about the thing by that time, so I went in search of Mrs. Budd. I found her standing close to the foyer, beaming at the noisy crowd and fanning herself with a neat little handkerchief.