He raised his head and saw us, and then came bustling over.
"Frightful business, this," he said energetically. "Terrible. And I'm supposed to be on vacation and can't get off as I'd planned. That man Egbert actually threatens to hold me as a material witness or some such thing, if I try to go. Scandalous thing!"
"We're worse off than you are," Ken said without sympathy. "Take my girlfriend here—we're forced to keep steady company. No choice."
Mr. Boxton gaped at us, and Ken added, "I suppose they're on your neck because of that stuff you gave to Homer?"
Mr. Boxton sighed. "I never should have done it—never—but he was always such a steady, reliable sort of man. Never any foolishness, you know— you could trust him—and he was so absorbed in his little experiments." He sighed again and finished dolefully. "And then he runs away with another man's wife and kills her."
"But he couldn't have run away with her if he killed her here," I protested.
"Oh yes, he did," said Mr. Boxton wrathfully. "Mrs. Fredon goes up to the country, and she's no sooner left than Homer and Mrs. Emerson come out and get into his car—the small car. Mrs. Fredon had the big one—"
"When did they come back?" I asked breathlessly.
"They came back Sunday afternoon," said Mr. Boxton.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I DREW IN MY BREATH, but Ken gave me a warning look and then asked casually, "Why, did you see them come back?"
"Yes, I did," Mr. Boxton declared emphatically, "and they were laughing and joking. They'd had a high old time, wherever they'd been."
Ken shook his head. "Just because you saw them go out together one day and come back together the next doesn't prove it was one trip."
"Yes, it does. They wore the same clothes, only a bit dusty, and the car was dusty, and anyway, I saw him pull a couple of overnight cases out of the car. They didn't see me—I was coming home after a morning of golf—I'd been in good form, too, and I hurried along to tell them about it, but they got in ahead of me. and I never caught up with them."
"Where were you when you saw them go out the day before?" Ken asked.
"I was sitting on my balcony, and I happened to notice them—she had on a red suit, and you couldn't miss it—but they just got in and drove off, and I didn't pay much attention."
"You' re on the eighth floor," Ken said, considering. "You wouldn't be able to see much of them from there, I suppose."
"Well no," Mr. Boxton admitted. "But I could see enough to know who it was."
"Have you told the cop Egbert about this?"
Mr. Boxton frowned. "No, I haven't. He annoys me—and anyway, he can find out by asking."
He seemed a bit upset at Egbert having been introduced into the conversation, so I said soothingly, "He is a bit of a pest, isn't he?"
There followed a fairly comprehensive description of Egbert's bad points, delivered by Mr. Boxton with a certain amount of vigor, and then I asked, "Did you think Homer and Betty were eloping when you saw them go away together like that?"
"Oh no," said Mr. Boxton, calming down. "Who'd be apt to think a thing like that? Betty was a gay, pretty young creature."
"I wonder you didn't tell someone you'd seen them come back on Sunday," Ken said after a moment. "I mean, when it came out that they were supposed to have eloped."
"It wasn't any of my business," Mr. Boxton declared petulantly. "John Emerson and I don't have much to say to one another—he once called me a nosy old—well, anyway, it was an opprobrious term—so I steer clear of anything that concerns him."
"But why didn't you tell Mrs. Fredon?" I asked.
"There's no use in my trying to be civil to Mrs. Fredon," Mr. Boxton said bitterly. "Just because I once spilled a little coffee on that fancy couch of her—such a commotion—and ever since, she barely nods to me. Homer and I have always been on very good terms, though—and personally, I don't believe that man Egbert's insinuations about him."
"What insinuations?"
"That Homer is crazy and is doing all this murdering. As a matter of fact he's quite sane—you get to know something about that sort of thing in my business—and I can tell you that Homer is as sane as you and I."
"I suppose you do acquire a certain amount of medical knowledge," Ken conceded admiringly. "Have you any idea what sort of poison was used? Something quick?"
Mr. Boxton looked serious and a trifle disappointed, and it was obvious that he didn't know. Apparently his knowledge of poisons was not specific, for he didn't even try to guess. "I've been thinking about it," he said weightily, "but I haven't come to any conclusion as yet."
We were interrupted by Egbert himself, who came snaking across the roof and greeted us with a brief flash of his teeth and the observation that it was a nice day, wasn't it?
Mr. Boxton glowered at him and suggested that if he were to look at the sky he might change his mind. We all looked up and discovered that we were surrounded and hemmed in by heavy black clouds. Ken said philosophically, "Well, anyway, it doesn't matter much to us prisoners."
Egbert ignored it and merely said mildly, "I think you two are wanted downstairs. Mrs. Davis said something about setting the table."
"Mrs. Fredon sets the table," I told him. "She's the only one who can do it to suit her. We wash the dishes."
"Do you, indeed?" murmured Egbert. "But perhaps you have a system of your own. I noticed this morning that the kitchen was piled high with dirty dishes."
"Damn it all," Ken muttered, "I forgot. I told Lucy we'd do them if she'd attend to the cooking. I hope Mary stays out of the kitchen—she'll have a heart attack."
Egbert cleared his throat and prepared to hold forth, but Ken got in ahead of him.
"Have you found out who sent that card to Mrs. Budd from Bingham-ton?" he asked.
Egbert cleared his throat again and said briefly, "No."
"Do you know who was up in Binghamton that weekend?" Egbert shrugged.
"I suppose that means you don't," Ken went on in what was fast becoming his sergeant's voice. "You should have checked the hotels to see whether Homer and Betty were there."
Egbert adjusted his pince-nez and said coldly, "I did. Naturally."
Ken looked a bit disappointed. "Oh. Well—were they?"
"Yes." Egbert replied, still chilly. "Checked in under their own names, in different rooms."
"Did you find out what they did up there?" I asked after a moment.
Egbert nodded. "They arrived in time for a late lunch at the hotel, after which they went out—but just where has not been ascertained. They returned for a late dinner at the hotel, talked for a while in the lobby, and retired. The following morning they had a late breakfast—at the hotel—and left. That's all."
"They must have come straight back," Ken said thoughtfully, "because they arrived here in the afternoon. And almost immediately Betty was murdered and Homer disappeared."
Egbert added, "And a few hours later—at around nine—Mrs. Fredon returned to find the apartment in the same spotless order in which she had left it."
But how could anyone, I thought, restore Mary's apartment to its usual exquisite, neat, and cleanly order—after killing a person there? It seemed impossible.
Egbert was eying us, and I gave him an innocent little smile. I felt pretty sure that there was a purpose behind anything he told us; probably this was an inducement to us to blurt out various pertinent things that we were keeping under our hats. However, the results were negative, for the three of us stood before him in wide-eyed silence, and he presently told us. rather irritably, that we'd better go down for lunch.
We were back inside the apartment, with the door closed, before we noticed that Mr. Boxton was still with us. I think he did it on purpose, because as soon as he was safely in he said in a loud, carrying voice, "What am I doing? I'm getting so absentminded these days," and of course Lucy heard him and immediately came bustling out to invite him to lunch. He accepted gaily and accompanied her back to the kitchen.
I hurried along to
the dining room, where I found the table neatly arranged for lunch. I knew that Mary would have Lucy in the doghouse for inviting Mr. Boxton, and with a vague idea of making things easier for her I inserted another place—complete with cutlery and napkin—and then went along to my room to wash up a bit.
I could hear Lucy and Mr. Boxton laughing and joking in the kitchen, and I presently went out there, but they paid no attention to me. Lucy was showing Mr. Boxton a new dance step, and I retired into a corner to be out of the way.
It was a large kitchen—modernized and gleaming—and had every imaginable convenience, from an intricate electric mixer right up to a fancy dishwashing machine and a huge bin which held frozen vegetables and fruits, so that Mary could have an out-of-season meal whenever she happened to want it. The stove had two ovens and eight burners, and I was admiring it idly when Lucy suddenly yelled. "Oh, my God!" and rushed over to it. She wrenched open one of the ovens, gave a gusty sigh of relief, and then called shrilly, "Lunch, everybody! All ready!"
Mr. Boxton and I helped to carry the stuff into the dining room, and there followed a short, silent struggle during which Mr. Boxton stood up manfully under Mary's glacial stare—and then we all sat down and began to eat.
Ken sent a calculating glance at Lucy and Mary and then asked casually. "Did you know that Betty actually sent that card to Mrs. Budd saying that she and Homer had eloped?"
Their heads jerked up together, and Ken, having got his effect, immediately supplied a theory. "I think she was joking. It seems obvious to me that Betty and Homer had some private business in Binghamton. I don't believe it was a secret—I think they were going to tell about it—and Betty sent the card off to her mother for a laugh."
Mary said intensely, "I don't believe it," and Lucy protested, "But I thought they didn't go to Binghamton at all?"
"Betty may have," Mary said quietly, "but Homer was here all the weekend."
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
LUCY REACHED for a piece of bread and said, "Mary, do be reasonable. How could you possibly know whether Homer was here when you were away yourself?"
Mary ignored her and spoke to the rest of us. "I know it quite well, because that's the weekend I had all the winter rugs off the floors, and the summer rugs didn't go down until Monday. That Mrs. Brindle, who lives underneath, put in a complaint— she's always complaining, anyway— and she said that the noise had been very disturbing—that she could hear every step on the bare floors. She declared that it was going on late Saturday night and started again on Sunday morning at ten o'clock."
"Oh, Mary!" Lucy protested. "Don't be so silly. That Brindle does complaining in her spare time for relaxation—she has to sit and think up things to complain about. There's no use trying to make sense out of anything she says."
"Well—but I told her there was no one at home that weekend, and she declared that I ought to call in the police. She insisted that someone was walking around."
"I think it's easily explained," Ken interposed. "She heard Betty and Homer when they came home, and in her complaint she stretched the time of the nuisance back to ten o'clock—and even to the night before. That's more or less typical of chronic complainers. Suppose we forget the whole thing."
"Certainly," said Mr. Boxton. "That Brindle woman is right out beyond the pale. I had it from the superintendent that she lodged a complaint when I moved in here—strictly on the basis of my profession, you understand. Seemed to think I might meet her in the lobby with a corpse tucked under each arm." He paused to laugh heartily, and then switched to a more serious subject. "Did I ever tell you about the time I won the state team of four? Bridge, you know."
No one gave him any encouragement, but he told it anyway. It was a long story, and he referred to himself, throughout, as the winner—although there seemed to be three other people who won the thing along with him. However, it developed that these three other people might have done reasonably well in a game of old maid, but Mr. Boxton had had to carry them to victory in the state team of four on his own shoulders. He did all his own laughing at the humorous parts in the story, and when he paused for breath, at the end, Mary heaved a delicate little sigh and then announced flatly: "I intend to clean the kitchen thoroughly this afternoon."
Lucy protested instantly and vigorously. She had everything arranged now so that she could lay her hand on whatever she wanted. She didn't mind cooking for everybody, but it made everything ten times harder when you didn't know where anything was. She ended up on a passionate plea. "Can't you just leave it until I go—and then clean up my dirt once and for all?"
"Not another minute," said Mary firmly. "I took a look at the kitchen a while ago, and it's in a frightful state. If that sort of thing goes on we shall have cockroaches."
Lucy sent an agonized look at Ken, and he tried amiably to help. "That mess you saw," he told Mary, "was there because Gene led me astray and diverted me from my duties. If you'll just have a little patience you'll find the kitchen bright and shining again—directly after this meal, in fact."
Mary shook her head obstinately. "No man can do a proper cleaning job. I shall do it myself."
Her eyes wandered around to me, and I immediately claimed a headache—but Lucy went at it in a more direct fashion.
"Don't expect any help from me, then. There's no need for you to touch the kitchen—but if you insist, you'll do it alone. I have enough to do with the cooking."
"I didn't ask you for help," said Mary coldly, "and I don't want any. I shall do it alone."
Ken and I washed the rather formidable collection of dishes, but though we invited Mr. Boxton to help he remembered that he had an engagement and departed hastily.
Lucy put the food away to a running accompaniment of grumbling.
"Some women make a god out of their homes—fire, famine, or flood— Sister comes down with scarlet fever or Junior breaks his leg—it doesn't matter—the dust has to be removed from the corners. They don't care how many lives they make miserable—waxing the floors comes first. When you go into their houses you're afraid to use the ashtrays and you feel all the time as though you should have left your shoes on the mat outside. You meet women like that at parties and all over—and they're so dull it makes you want to scream. The only time they come to life is when somebody asks about the best way to clean up white woodwork or something. Then listen to them go!"
"All right, pal," Ken said finally. He removed his dishwashing apron and wrung it out. "You've relieved your feelings. Now you can relax and let Mary relieve hers by laundering the kitchen."
"It's easy for you to talk." Lucy said gloomily.
We left her there with her brow furrowed, and Ken steered me along to the front door.
"Where are we going?" I asked, pulling back. "It's time for my nap."
"I always insist on the boys having a nap after lunch back at camp," he said, giving me a cold eye, "but you're only a lousy civilian, and we have work to do. We're going to call on that pearl among women—Mrs. Brindle."
"My dear Holmes!" I began, but he slapped a hand over my mouth and pushed me through the door.
He was all purposeful energy until we got to Mrs. Brindle's door, when he seemed to suffer a relapse.
"What's the matter now?"
"I—er—don't know how to open the proceedings."
"Just step to one side and watch," I said, and rang the bell firmly.
The door was opened by a young maid—which immediately placed Mrs. Brindle as one apart and distinct from the common people, who were all fresh out of maids.
"We wish to speak to Mrs. Brindle," I said. "It's very important."
The maid admitted us to the foyer and disappeared, and I ran my eye over the furniture. There were no antiques—solid stuff, and completely mongrel— just the sort of thing to cause Mary to raise an eyebrow.
Mrs. Brindle swept into the foyer, and her assurance was so aggressive that the furniture immediately appeared to be quite all right. She was a medium heavyweight, with a gray, u
pswept coiffure and a cold, fishy gray eye. I could see that she was preparing to ask brusquely what she could do for us. so I got in ahead of her.
"Mrs. Brindle, we're staying in Mrs. Fredon's apartment—upstairs, you know—and we want to apologize for that terribly noisy party we gave. I know it must have kept you awake all night—and we had no idea of it turning out like that. It was to have been just a few friends in for a little bridge—but I'm afraid they were not the right kind of people. They brought liquor with them, and other people whom we didn't know—and they pulled the rug up and danced. Why, there was a girl named Alice—"
Ken kicked my ankle, and Mrs. Brindle said grimly, "They danced—all right—fearful racket. Couldn't you make them stop after I'd sent up the complaint?"
It was the first I'd heard of a complaint, but Ken seemed to know all about it. He coughed gently and explained, "I'm afraid it was ignored by the person who answered the door—a marine—and he said, 'Tell her to—er— well, these marines get the polish scraped off them a bit—but anyway, the trouble with these floors is that they're not properly soundproofed."
Mrs. Brindle suddenly beamed on him and decided to let us into the living room. When we were settled into an odd assortment of chairs she said to Ken, "You are quite right about the floors. I have often said so. And of course when there are no carpets it's really dreadful—every sound pounding into your head."
Ken nodded sympathetically. "Mary was telling us that you were bothered by the noise that weekend she took her winter rugs up."
The Brindle eye glittered. "It was outrageous. I don't know what Mary was doing—she practically bit my ear off when I mentioned it—but she started Saturday night and kept it up all day Sunday, banging around on those bare floors—"
"But Mary wasn't here that weekend, you know," Ken said. Mrs. Brindle gave him an alert glance. "So she told me. Anyway, someone was there."
"Did it sound like a man or a woman?" I asked, and felt a bit like Egbert.
Mrs. Brindle began to enjoy herself. She gathered that there was something sinister about the footsteps, and she went into a deep huddle with herself. However, when she rose to the surface again, all she could say was, "Well, really—I'm not sure. But I'll tell you one thing—I believe whoever it was was looking for something. At the time I just assumed it was Mary doing her endless housework—spends her life, you know, chasing the dirt around up there. Never stops to think how a vacuum cleaner or a waxing machine sounds to someone sitting right under it but what I mean is, those footsteps were simply incessant."
The Black Dream_Rue Morgue Vintage Mysteries Page 12
