The Black Dream_Rue Morgue Vintage Mysteries

by Constance Little

  I dispensed with finesse and asked simply, "What does John mean when he talks about 'that damned black eye'?"

  It was immediately apparent that she knew—and that she wasn't telling. She began to fan herself more violently and said in a flustered voice, "Why, I don't know, I'm sure. John's eyes are dark brown, anyway— people's eyes are never actually black, you know. When did John mention the black eye to you?"

  "He didn't," I admitted. "I heard him say something about it to Mrs. Manchester, and I wondered what he meant."

  "Oh." she said, and relaxed into a smile of relief. "It was nothing, I guess— just a figure of speech."

  I felt that I'd been rude enough about something that was none of my business, and let it drop.

  Mrs. Budd glanced out into the foyer and said in a bothered voice. "Now what in the world is the matter with Suzy?"

  I looked and saw Suzy standing in the hall, with her head turned toward the front door. As we watched she turned and approached us in an uncertain fashion, and with another glance over her shoulder at the door.

  "What is it, Suzy?" Mrs. Budd asked. "You know you have plenty to do. What are you standing about out here for?"

  "Yes ma'am." Suzy cleared her throat and got her apron mixed in with her hands. "It's Mr. Homer. He's—in the kitchen."

  CHAPTER NINE

  MRS. BUDD AND I FLEW toward the kitchen and squeezed through the door together. Homer's old pipe lay on a table, still smoking, but he was not there.

  Mrs. Budd turned to Suzy, who had followed us, and demanded excitedly, "Where is he?"

  "I guess maybe in one of the bedrooms," Suzy said doubtfully. "I sort of watched the front door, in case he might slip out. See, he didn't want me to tell anyone he was here, and I said I wouldn't, but I kept thinking I ought to."

  "Yes, quite right." Mrs. Budd hesitated and then started out of the kitchen with sudden decision. "I'm going to find him—I expect he's in his own bedroom."

  I followed in her footsteps, and we went straight into Ken's bedroom. It was empty, and Mrs. Budd shook her head disappointedly. "He used to sleep here—it was his room."

  She tried Lucy's room and mine, without result, and decided at last, with growing agitation, "Then he must be in Mary's room. Of course he never used to go there, much—she's so fussy about those worm-eaten old antiques of hers—but that's where he must be."

  I was about to tell her that Mary's door was locked when she simply turned the knob and walked in. I supposed that Homer must have unlocked it—it seemed likely that he'd know where Mary was in the habit of keeping the key. Mrs. Budd and I gazed around the handsome apartment together— but there was no sign of Homer.

  Suzy had followed us to the door and was still twisting at her limp apron. "Why don't you search the room?" she whispered. "He must be here."

  Mrs. Budd said, "That will do, Suzy. You had better go and attend to your chores."

  Suzy sighed, "Yes ma'am," and departed reluctantly, and Mrs. Budd went into the bathroom. She emerged again almost immediately with a worried frown between her brows.

  "He's not there—he must have slipped out again—it's really very annoying." She looked helplessly around the room, tapping her foot nervously. "I must find him—he'll tell me where Betty is, so that I can get in touch with her."

  I suggested that we look in the remaining bathroom, but when we got there we found that it was empty too.

  "But he must have been here," I said. "Perhaps he slipped out when we went into Mary's room. I expect he'll be back—probably he doesn't want anyone to see him—wants to talk to Mary first."

  She nodded. "But I want to talk to him too—I think he owes me that. I'm sure he could tell me where Betty is, and then I could tell John. Because John's wrong about Betty having gone off with some man—I think she's just hiding somewhere to teach him a lesson."

  I couldn't agree with her, but as we turned back into the hall I reflected that it was a comforting theory for her to hold.

  At the entrance to the living room we met Suzy again. She was mangling her apron more energetically than ever, and she suggested timidly but bravely. "You better search the whole place."

  "We have just finished searching the place," said Mrs. Budd irritably. "Don't be silly."

  "No," said Suzy, standing her ground. "I mean, look under things. You know."

  "Get back to the kitchen," said Mrs. Budd, "and hurry. It's time to serve the supper."

  Suzy departed, and Mrs. Budd began to elbow her way over to where John was standing. I watched her for a moment and then went back along the hall to the telephone.

  Mary was both excited and angry. She held forth in a series of exclamations and eventually calmed to a point where she announced that she would come down first thing in the morning and told me to hold Homer in the apartment until she got there, if he turned up again.

  I tried the door of Mary's bedroom again and found that it was still unlocked, but there was no key. I went to the desk and found that the key was where I had put it and after puzzling over it for a moment I came to the conclusion that it was Mary's regular habit to put the key of her room in the desk and that Homer knew it. I supposed that he must have been hiding in her room during the evening and had finally ventured out to smoke a pipe in the kitchen—because the poor old rabbit would hardly take such a liberty within the sacred walls of Mary's artistic bedroom.

  I locked the bedroom again, replaced the key, and returned to the party. Suzy was trying to tell the multitude that a supper was laid out in the dining room, but her little pipe was completely lost in the general uproar. I turned and made for the dining room with all haste and found that only Mrs. Budd and John had managed to get in ahead of me. As a matter of fact, they seemed to be arguing and had paid no attention to the food, so I collected a tasty little meal for myself and sat down to eat it.

  Mrs. Budd and John did not seem to notice me and went on with their argument.

  "You should have called me," John was saying angrily. "I'd have gone after him and found him. Now it's too late—he's gone, and he may never come back."

  "Now, dear, please don't get so excited—he'll come back, I feel quite sure of it. And Betty will too. I have such a strong feeling about it, John—I know she hasn't gone off with anyone. She's trying to show you how lonely your life is without her—and it is lonely, isn't it, dear?"

  She looked up at him appealingly, and I coughed to let them know that I was there.

  They turned around, and John came directly over to me. "I wish you had called me when Suzy told you about Homer. I feel sure that I could have found him."

  "Oh well," I said easily, "I shouldn't worry about it—he's bound to turn up again. Apparently he doesn't like it, away from Mary."

  John shrugged and turned to the table where the supper was laid out. I thought he looked worried and haggard, and Mrs. Budd, after watching him uneasily for a moment, went on into the kitchen, where I could hear her talking to Suzy.

  John brought his supper over and sat down beside me. "Mary should know about this," he said, frowning down at his plate.

  "I called her—she's coming down in the morning."

  He looked up in some surprise. "In the morning? Not now—at once?"

  "Well, no," I said. "She doesn't want to come rushing back the minute Homer shows his guilty face—he might get above himself."

  The party came pouring into the dining room in a body at that point, and before long most of my coffee was in the saucer, while at least half of my salad lay around on the floor. John was completely surrounded, since, despite all Lucy's efforts, there was a shortage of men, so I was able to creep into the living room and finish what was left of my supper in peace.

  Although I was tired of him, I found myself thinking of Homer again, probably because my mind would not accept him in his present situation. He had always seemed so contented! Of course I didn't actually know—I'd been going on what Mary had told me about him and my own impressions on the few occasions I had seen hi
m in New York with Mary. He had seemed far more interested in his golf and their country place than in other women or cocktail parties. And he'd obviously taken pride in the good position he'd held in an insurance company.

  The party began to drift back into the living room, and Ken appeared beside me, holding a cup of coffee and a doughnut. "I've missed you," he said amiably.

  "You've what?" I asked, astounded.

  "Well—I looked for you a couple of times and couldn't find you."

  "Perhaps if you had looked to right and left instead of just straight in front of you?" I suggested politely.

  "Have you heard about Homer?"

  "Homer? No."

  I told him what I knew, and he seemed surprised but not much interested. "Oh well—his whole interest has always been in the company where he worked and that summer place of theirs—and he depended on Mary—even if she did fuss him about ashtrays and bringing mud in on his shoes. I suppose freedom looked good to him until he kicked over and got it—and then he found himself going in circles without a rudder—so he came back."

  He shrugged the subject away and began to tell me some of his Army experiences. My attention wandered, but I tried to keep my face interested and murmured, "Mmm," from time to time, until a couple of women flitted up and carried him off.

  I wandered aimlessly out into the hall and then started back to the living room, but when I came abreast of my bedroom, something seemed to whisper "Why not?" so, with a quick glance up and down the hall I slipped in and closed the door after me. I figured happily that no one would be mean enough to call on me to help with the cleaning up if I were asleep when that dismal time arrived.

  I turned toward the bed and then stopped short, because there was a girl lying on it. She did not open her eyes or move, and I realized that she had passed out. I stood there for a while, quietly cursing people who go around drinking too much, and then an idea came to me. Mary's room. I could get a night's sleep there and move out before Mary arrived in the morning. I grabbed a few things and hurried out into the hall, where I got the key from the desk and let myself in. I locked the door again on the inside and within a very few minutes was comfortably stretched out in the bed—which may have been an antique but unquestionably had a modern and expensive mattress and spring. I turned off the light and went to sleep almost immediately.

  I was awake again after only a short time, and my drowsy comfort had gone. I was restless and even nervous, and I was haunted by a real or fancied odor—something like a hospital, and yet not quite like it, either.

  I got up at last, turned on the light, and established myself on the chaise longue with a cigarette. But I had smoked too much; my mouth was dry and my throat rasped, and I put the cigarette out and went back to bed. I stayed there for about five minutes with my eyes firmly closed and then gave it up. I went to the door, unlocked it. and peered out, wondering if the party was over. An assortment of noises told me that it was not, and I decided to go across and see whether the girl in my room had recovered enough to depart.

  In the hall I found myself mixed up with Lucy, Mrs. Budd, John Emerson, and Ken.

  John seemed to be in a temper. "Of course you're going to cut your furlough short. Smith." he was saying angrily. "You needn't suppose that you have me fooled. You come up here on leave, have this party to show yourself to everyone, and think you've covered up the fact that Betty is living down near your camp with you."

  CHAPTER TEN

  FOR A WHILE Sergeant Smith was mute, his eyes fixed on John's face, while a dark red burned itself into his face and neck. When he did speak his voice was under control, but the effort was obvious.

  "You've been under a strain, John, and I'm allowing for that—but I've no more idea of where Betty is than you have, and I don't want that lie repeated."

  "You used to take her out before you went into the Army," John said hotly, "and since you've been in, you and she have written to each other regularly."

  "Of course I went out with her." Ken admitted, the control slipping a little. "She was very pleasant company, and you were always busy going out with someone else. And as for writing—every soldier will write to anyone who's kind enough to send him letters."

  Lucy put an oar in. "I think it's nice of the soldiers to correspond with us. I know I—"

  John interrupted her without any consciousness of having done so. "I understand all that. But it's odd that Betty would never allow me to read either her letters or yours."

  "There was no reason for that—at least none that I know of. Anyway, you'd better come down to the camp and prove it for yourself."

  "Yes," said John nastily, "only don't forget to warn her in time, so that she can leave."

  Ken tried to jam his hands into his pockets, but they wouldn't go, because his pants were too tight. "All right, think what you like," he said fiercely, "but you're barking up the wrong tree. I'm cutting my furlough short for reasons that are no damn business of yours—and you can rot before I'll explain them to you."

  He turned and flung off—sideswiping me on the way so that I went spinning into Lucy. She gave me such a severe look that I felt obliged to apologize to her.

  "John," Mrs. Budd quavered nervously, "I'm sure you're wrong, dear. Betty is only hiding, so that . . ." Her voice died away as John turned and walked toward the foyer.

  I found Lucy regarding me intently and with narrowed eyes. "Why did you change your dress?" she asked sharply.

  I glanced down at my prewar negligee, which was of pale pink chiffon. "I'm just undressed," I explained hastily. "This is my fire negligee, and I thought I might run into someone while I was crossing the hall."

  Lucy, and Mrs. Budd as well, immediately wanted to know why I had undressed, and after only half listening to my halting explanation came to the simultaneous conclusion that I was feeling ill. They took me to my room and immediately set about removing the body. They did it so competently that I watched them with open admiration. The girl never stirred as they carried her out to the hall and arranged her on a long narrow antique settee—although she looked thoroughly uncomfortable and awkward.

  That having been accomplished, Mrs. Budd and Lucy pushed me into my room, hoped I'd feel better in the morning, and somewhat insulted me by advising me to cut down on my drinking, since it affected me that way.

  I climbed into bed, but it was no use trying to sleep, because the party had decided to sing. Instead I picked up my book and settled back to read. It was interesting, and I was comfortable, and I read through the breaking up of the party—which was a shrill babel of thanks and farewells—and the clearing up afterward—which was fairly quiet and sounded grim. There were two breakages, and each time I winced and hoped that Mary's good glasses had escaped.

  At last everything was quiet, and I was surprised to find that it was only three o'clock—rather early for a party with the momentum that that one had seemed to have.

  I yawned and put my book down and turned out the light—and at the same time someone opened the front door, closed it again, and switched on the hall light. I listened, not breathing much, but there was absolute silence— no footsteps advancing along the hall-nothing. I got out of bed, pulled on my negligee, and opened the door.

  It was Mary. She was standing just inside the front door, staring along the hall with a look almost of horror on her face.

  "Mary!" I exclaimed, startled. "What is it? What's the matter?"

  She looked up. "Oh, Eugenia—it's you. But who's this? You know that settee is a valuable antique, but it isn't strong—I always avoid using it, even to sit on—that's why I have it out in the hall."

  I walked forward and had to smother the grin that I felt coming on. The girl still lay where Lucy and Mrs. Budd had put her—apparently overlooked by the cleaning crew.

  I murmured, "Tch, tch—give me a hand, Mary, and we'll put her somewhere else."

  We started to raise the girl, but this time she woke up and announced that she wanted to go home.

  Ma
ry, who seemed to have recognized her, began to scold. "You know very well, Viola, that your father has forbidden you to drink again. I shall have to tell him."

  Viola regarded her darkly for a moment and then delivered an opinion. "You are an abonimal ole tattletale—but definitely."

  Mary took her around the shoulders and walked her out of the apartment and along the outside corridor to a door where she rang the bell—although the girl protested that she had a key. However, someone opened the door— presumably the father, since Mary did her tattling—the girl was pushed into her retribution, and Mary returned, brushing disgustedly at her neat linen suit.

  "These young girls! I don't know what Lucy was thinking of—or Ken either—to invite her to a party of that sort."

  "But, Mary—how did you happen to come down? I thought you were going to wait until the morning."

  "Yes, I know—but I simply couldn't. As soon as I heard about Homer I was so restless and nervous that I couldn't sit still, so I simply got into the car and drove down."

  She took off her hat and brushed the hair back from her forehead with a tired gesture. "It was a dreadful trip, though—misty up in the hills, and I had to crawl, in places. I must have wished a thousand times that I'd waited until the morning. Now tell me again about Homer."

  I told her the whole story again and she became very agitated and not a little annoyed at our having allowed him to slip through our fingers. "I can't understand why you let him go, Eugenia—surely you could have held onto him until I came." She began to twist her hands together, and moaned, "What can be the matter with him—whatever is the matter? He must be ill."

  "He'll come back, Mary," I soothed her. "He's bound to, and I'm sure he'll explain everything."

  She turned away and went toward the kitchen. "I'll have to have some coffee. There's no use in my trying to sleep, anyway."

  I followed and started to make the coffee for her, but things became complicated right away. She noticed that various utensils had either been put away in the wrong order or were hanging at the wrong angle—and as a matter of fact, it was pretty obvious, even to my eye, that the cleanup job had been a sloppy one. When I came to the coffee making, it immediately developed that there was only one way to make coffee—and I did not know it. All in all, it was fully half an hour before we sat down to drink the stuff.