Mary looked somewhat cheered and said with quiet triumph, "I told you that Homer was not doing these terrible things."
Egbert smoked for a while and then observed, "I understand that the material that was wound around Mrs. Emerson's body was intended for trimming on some curtains."
"Drapes," said Mary, "yes. But I was so upset when Homer left that I was not able to do the work."
"Where was the material kept?" Egbert asked.
Mary looked into space and thought it over for a while. "Oh—I remember, now. I bought all they had, you know, because I thought it would match all the curtains, and I intended to gather it and make ruffles—it would be very suitable for the type of house I have, and it would have a uniform look from the outside. I think I bought too much of the stuff, as a matter of fact, although of course you need plenty when you're going to ruffle it. I brought it home in the car and put it in my room, and later I opened the package and showed the material to Homer. He liked it very much and thoroughly agreed with me that it was the right color—even though Lucy didn't think so."
"I still don't," Lucy interposed firmly.
"And so?" Egbert prodded.
"Well, then I couldn't find a place to put it—so annoying—it was such a large package. I left it on a chair in my room. When I went up to the cottage for the first weekend this summer, to open up and clean the place out, I forgot to take the package, and I was furious with myself. Homer didn't come with me—he had a bad headache and wanted to stay in bed. It was very upsetting, because I needed him—there are so many things for him to do when we open up. He wanted me to wait for another weekend, but I had everything planned, so I went up alone—except that I had a woman with me to help with the cleaning. We managed all right, although I missed the help that Homer could have given me. And then, when I got back on Sunday night, Homer was not here. When he didn't come home all night I supposed he had gone on a business trip—and forgotten to leave me a note—although I was worried and uneasy. I was just going to phone his office, on Monday morning, when Mrs. Budd came in with that card from Betty. I was very much upset—naturally— and so I can't remember whether that material was still on the chair in my room or not. I didn't notice it, one way or the other."
Egbert, who doubtless had heard the story of Homer's flight before, and merely wanted details about the ruffle material, nevertheless sat through Mary's recital with resigned patience. He sighed when she had finished, and then swept a look around the table that warned of a change of subject.
"Anybody here ever been in the undertaking business?" he asked mildly.
Lucy choked on her coffee, and after Ken had nearly floored her with a gentle tap on the back she sat mopping at her eyes and asked feebly if these quizzes couldn't be held between meals.
Egbert ignored the suggestion and sternly put the question to each one of us—but nobody had been in the undertaking business. Lucy offered Mr. Boxton, who lived in the building and had freely talked shop on several occasions. "Perfectly ghastly, too," Lucy said cheerfully. "You've no idea how callous they get."
Egbert nodded. "I know about Mr. Boxton. But it seems hardly likely that he embalmed Mrs. Emerson."
"Embalmed?" I echoed hollowly.
"Yes, certainly—how did you think she lasted? But in spite of the wrapping, which gives the idea of a mummy, the embalming was up to date. Injection of a drug."
"Listen, wait a minute." Lucy exclaimed suddenly. "Homer had some of that stuff—whatever it is—that drug. Don't you remember, Mary? Mr. Boxton gave it to him."
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
MARY FLEW INTO A TEMPER and declared that we were all against her. She admitted that Mr. Boxton had given Homer the drug, but declared defensively that Homer liked to dabble in chemistry and had wanted it only for scientific purposes.
"But your husband had never studied medicine or chemistry?" Egbert asked.
"He had—he did," Mary fumed. "He studied medicine by himself, because he was very interested in it."
Egbert seemed unimpressed. "Where did he do his dabbling in chemistry? Here—or at the cottage?"
"Mostly at the cottage. But sometimes he'd bring something back here with him, when he was very interested and wanted to go on with it. But I'm sure he never brought that stuff down—that Mr. Boxton gave him. You can look around and see."
Egbert cleared his throat, and I swallowed a laugh at Mary giving him permission to look around, when he'd already been into every nook and cranny—in his quiet way.
"He had that stuff up in the country, then?"
But Mary lost her assurance and began to look doubtful. "Why—I suppose so. I mean, he always took that kind of thing up there. Of course I didn't exactly see him do it, but—"
"He couldn't have taken it up to the cottage, Mary," Lucy broke in. "Don't you remember, Mr. Boxton gave him that stuff on the Thursday before he disappeared. Anyway, Mr. Boxton didn't actually give it to him for nothing, did he? Seems to me Homer paid for it."
Mary, dispensing with all subtlety and finesse, turned to Lucy and told her, in a ladylike voice, to pack up and go home.
Ken smoothed it over. "Look, Mary, Lucy's right and you're wrong. We all want to clear Homer, and the only way to do it is to tell the truth and get to the bottom of what has happened. Lucy's your friend, and she's trying to help you and Homer. You ought to apologize and ask her to stay."
"You really should," I murmured, thinking of all the meals Lucy whipped together without help from anyone.
Egbert held his peace and waited, with a gleam of hope in his eye. Mary, tracing a pattern on the arm of her chair, stewed in silence for a moment and then said fretfully, "Well—but Lucy is supposed to answer questions, and I don't see why she volunteers information that will only confuse Mr. Egbert."
Egbert assured her, with a certain amount of severity, that nothing ever confused him, and went on to say that the drug was not in the apartment, so where was it?
"How can you possibly know whether it's in the apartment when you haven't looked?" Mary asked reasonably. "I know he must have got it up to the country, where he keeps all those things. Anyway, I give you leave to search the entire apartment—and I'm sure you won't find it."
Egbert looked a bit gloomy, and I didn't blame him, since he now had to go and pretend to search the apartment. Especially when I thought of Suzy's needle that she threw in the garbage—that must have been it, and Suzy knew all about it.
But worse was yet to come. The only thing that could have kept Mary from supervising a search of her apartment was a broken leg, and she went hurrying off after Egbert, with a grim look on her face, to make sure that there would be no mayhem. Lucy, Ken, and I exchanged happy smiles as we heard her instructions about where the search was to start, how it was to be done, and the amount of care that was to be shown when breakables were involved.
I presently glanced out of the window and got to my feet. "It's a lovely day—I think I'll go for a walk."
"Oh no, you don't," Ken said lazily. "I tried it this morning. We're besieged."
"What do you mean?"
Lucy, who was fussing with her hair and had a bobby pin in her mouth, said in a muffled voice, "Reporters. They've been trying to get up here all morning. You'd have to walk in the center of a mob with questions bouncing off your head."
I took another look at the weather and sighed. It would have been a relief to get out of the place and away from it all for a while—but I gave up the idea and went out onto the balcony and looked down. Certainly there seemed to be a lot of people milling around on the lawn.
"Sit down," Ken said behind me, "and they may not notice you. If you stand there they'll spot you and throw up a ladder or something."
I sat down, while Lucy edged out and took the other chair, and Ken sat on the floor with his back against the doors.
"You know, Homer asked for that drug," Lucy said in a low voice and with a glance in the direction of the living room. "Boxton is a funny one, anyway. He shouldn't talk shop at social gather
ings, but he always does—he practically boasts about it—tells the most ghastly stories—you've no idea."
"Who was around," Ken asked, "when Boxton gave Homer the drug?"
"Well, he didn't give it to him then," Lucy explained. "He just promised it for Thursday. He was going to have it all fixed in a hypo, I think, so that Homer could try it out on an animal or something."
"Do you think he actually gave it to Homer?"
"Why, I suppose so," Lucy said, widening her eyes. "I mean he must have."
"Who else was listening to that conversation?" I asked.
"Mary was there," Lucy remembered, squinting thoughtfully, "and both the Emersons—they were together for a change—and Mrs. Budd, and John's girlfriend was there—Dotty—and myself. It was in May, but it was a hot night and we were sitting on the lawn down there. I'd had dinner with Mary and Homer."
"And it was the following weekend that Betty and Homer disappeared?"
Lucy nodded. "Saturday."
"But wasn't she missed Saturday night?" I asked.
"No," Lucy said, "she was going up to stay with a friend in New York and was not expected back until Monday morning—and that's when the card came saying she'd eloped with Homer." She thought it over for a moment and shook her head. "Whoever sent that card must have been cracked—imagine Betty eloping with Homer!"
"It does seem like Homer's work," Ken admitted. "Only Homer—and I think he'd have to be loony at that—could think that Betty would elope with him."
"He knew that Mary was going to take that bed up to the country, you see." Lucy explained eagerly, "and he figured he could get rid of the body in his own good time once it was up there."
Ken shook his head. "He must have been nuts—because they'd certainly have to take that bed apart before they could move it."
"No, you're wrong. That bottom part with the drawer was all in one piece when it came—it was only the posts and the canopy that were taken down. Mary tried to open the drawer and couldn't, so she said it probably had been stuck for generations and gave up trying."
"My guess is that it was nailed up by the moving men who brought it," Ken said.
"I suppose she was poisoned like Suzy." I suggested, breaking the silence.
Ken shrugged and said the autopsy would show what was what.
"What kind of poison was it?" I asked. "With Suzy, I mean."
But they didn't know, and we fell silent again until Lucy began to worry about the marketing. I said that surely Mary's grocer would be willing to send an order if it were telephoned, and the other two agreed without enthusiasm. It seemed that in order to get decent food you had to go around to the shop yourself and poke the stuff with your finger before buying it.
For some time I had been vaguely aware of sounds from the Emerson living room, and now I began consciously to listen. It was as though furniture were being moved around, and there was an accompaniment of muffled voices. The voices were raised occasionally and became sharp enough to be identified as belonging to Mrs. Budd and John. Once Mrs. Budd came near the trench doors, and we heard her say, "If you had only put it where I told you to in the first place, you wouldn't have lost it. Anyway, I don't see that it matters so much."
There was a short, angry reply of some sort from John, and then silence.
Ken stirred and said, "I wonder what the devil he's looking for?"
Lucy, who didn't want to miss anything, whispered, "Shh!" and then John's voice came, shrill and quite clear.
"It's just that it annoys me—losing that damned black eye!"
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
KEN'S FOREHEAD was wrinkled in a puzzled frown, and Lucy's mouth had dropped open a little.
I looked at them for a moment and then burst out in exasperation, "You two must know something about that black eye he's always cussing out—I don't know how many times I've heard him swearing at it, but I still haven't found out what he's talking about."
Ken shrugged and muttered, "Darned if I know," but Lucy was silent, her eyes half closed and thoughtful.
I prodded her, after a while, and asked urgently. "What is it, Lucy? What does he mean by his 'black eye'?"
She looked at me vaguely and said, "I don't know, he's always talking over people's heads. I think I'll go in for a moment. I've just thought of something new."
Ken tried to catch her skirt as she passed him, but he missed, and it flapped into his face instead. He swore under his breath and then asked aggrievedly, "Isn't that just like Lucy?"
"What did she mean—new recipe'.'"
But he shrugged and said that Lucy was often incoherent and there was no use in trying to straighten her out, and he added that as long as we were more or less prisoners doing time together we might as well sit and enjoy our little patch of blue sky. He suggested courteously that I tell him all about myself—and without giving me a chance to open my mouth, plunged into his own life history.
He had reached the age of ten—a fine, sturdy, manly little boy—when John Emerson interrupted by appearing on his balcony and making a slow tour with his eyes on the ground.
"Have you lost something, Mr. Emerson?" I asked.
He started and swung around on us, but as soon as he had recovered himself he said shortly, "Nothing. That is, nothing of any consequence."
Well, I thought, he hasn't lost either of his own dark brown eyes—and probably the thing wasn't an eye at all—maybe it was the title of a book. Perhaps he wrote poetry for his girlfriends and called it The Black Eye.
"Mr. Emerson, do you write poetry?" I asked.
The two of them stared at me as though I were a lunatic, and John said briefly, "Never wrote a line of anything in my life." I subsided.
John glanced at Ken and said, "I apologize for having accused you of going away with Betty—it was stupid, but I really believed it:"
"Quite all right," Ken replied amiably. "I understand how you must have felt—don't give it another thought. If there's anything I can do, please let me know."
John turned away and muttered, "No, thanks, there's nothing."
Some sort of a commotion started in the living room behind us just then, and Ken and I went on in to see what was happening.
Mary was complaining about the carelessness of people who dropped things down behind chair cushions, while Egbert stood beside the chair in which Suzy had died, with her little book in his hand. Lucy, apparently with some idea that Mary's remarks were being thrown obliquely at her, had her head well in the air. I tried to drape myself with an air of innocence.
Egbert presently cleared his throat and shut Mary up by informing her that Suzy had undoubtedly dropped the little book into the chair, since it was Suzy's little book, after which he walked out of the room. I watched him go and wondered why he had bothered to lie about it. I knew he must have searched that chair as soon as Suzy had been removed from it—and nobody knew better than I that the book had not been there then. Egbert, I thought, was full of devious purposes and little white lies. He had us boxed up in an apartment, confusing and trapping us, and biding his time before he pounced.
"Isn't there a roof garden on top of this building?" Ken asked Mary.
"Yes," she said abstractedly, "yes, of course—only there's so much to do here. The whole place upset, you know. The floors need waxing—"
"Mary!" I interrupted sharply. "For heaven's sake, relax. What on earth is the use of cleaning the place and waxing the floors just so that Egbert and his men can tramp through and mess everything up again? You'll be ill if you don't have some rest. If there is a roof garden, let's go up and sit there and forget about Egbert—and your floors too."
But I might as well have saved my breath, because Mary had wandered off and, by the time I had finished, was already wiping down the legs of the piano. Ken watched her gloomily, and I felt a sudden pity for him—spending a furlough like this.
"Haven't you a date for today with any of your girlfriends?" I asked.
He shook his head. "I was all fixed up wit
h Alice, but she phoned and put it off. I suspect Egbert of having had a hand in it, because he's made it pretty obvious that he'll feel much happier if we all stay penned up together where he can keep an eye on us."
"Egbert can go and fly his kite," I said firmly. "I'm going out today, and he and the reporters can do what they like about it. And right now I'm going up on the roof."
Ken followed me out into the hall and passed the remark that I probably hadn't made my bed yet.
"No," I said, "I haven't, but since I'm going to get back into it tonight, it would only be wasted energy."
"Suppose there's a fire, and the neighbors all come running in? Mary could never hold up her head again."
I ignored him, and Lucy stuck her head out of the kitchen. "Where are you going? Lunch will be ready in about half an hour."
"We'll be back," Ken promised her, and joined me at the front door where a man, apparently belonging to Egbert, was unhappily but courteously trying to explain that everyone would be happier if I stayed inside.
Ken brushed him aside, and he bleated, "Just a moment, please—if you will wait just a moment till I get Mr. Egbert. I believe he wants to speak to you before you go."
"Nothing doing," said Ken. "If he wants us we'll be up on the roof."
The man looked nonplused, and seemed, somehow, to be half rushing away to get Egbert and half staying to try and hold us. He lost out completely, and Ken and I went outside and closed the door firmly in his face.
Ken said, "We won't wait for the elevator—it might bring on another emergency—and anyway, it's only four flights up."
The four flights left me completely breathless, but Ken seemed to take it in his stride. When we emerged onto the roof he took a deep breath and said, "Ahh! This is more like it."
We wandered around for a while, and then I caught sight of a man, standing on the far side of the roof, apparently admiring a pot of geraniums. A second look identified him as Mr. Boxton, and I thought idiotically, I suppose he never sees geraniums at his funerals—they wouldn't be appropriate.
The Black Dream_Rue Morgue Vintage Mysteries Page 11
