"It was that afternoon that Betty and Homer came back," Ken said. "What time did Mary get in?"
"Nine o'clock. And at a few minutes after, she went in to the Emersons' and asked if they had seen her husband, as he wasn't there. Mrs. Budd remarked that she guessed he had not yet returned from Binghamton, and Mrs. Fredon demanded to know what she was talking about and denied that her husband had gone to Binghamton. I believe there was a slight tiff. At any rate Mrs. Fredon returned to her own apartment and, according to her statement, spent the night worrying until the next morning, when Mrs. Budd came running in with that postcard. Mrs. Fredon says she believed in the elopement until she thought it over, when she became convinced that her husband would never have run off with Mrs. Emerson."
"What did Emerson and Mrs. Budd believe?" Ken asked.
"You know what they thought," Egbert replied—and sounded as though he were on the verge of revolt. "Emerson supposed his wife was covering up her elopement with someone else, and Mrs. Budd believed that her daughter was trying to teach her son-in-law a lesson."
Lucy giggled shrilly just then, and the conversation in the hall ceased abruptly. I yawned, flopped onto the couch, and was still wondering whether I felt squeamish about it when I went off to sleep.
I woke some time later and saw that Lucy was still asleep. I lay on my back, looking at the ceiling, and found myself wondering drowsily why Egbert hadn't arrested John—because he must know all about John and Suzy— and the black eye. But it was the motive, of course—there just wasn't any. John had no need to kill Betty to get rid of her: she wanted a divorce anyway. I knew that he was very fond of the little girl, but with Betty dead, the money would stop, and John was faced with the support of the child—to say nothing of Mrs. Budd. No motive there, and certainly Mrs. Budd had none. Mary had apparently been quite satisfied with Homer, and she'd have to cut down her expenses now, since his insurance would never give her as much as his salary had been. Probably she would have to part with some of her sacred furniture, which would half kill her. Lucy seemed to be nothing but an interested onlooker. Ken had been fond of Betty. There was always Dotty Manchester, of course, who wanted Betty out of the way but who could hardly have been interested in Homer. And then Suzy—poor little Suzy—who had been killed because she had discovered Homer and wanted someone else to discover him too.
Maybe J. X. Boxton was responsible for the whole thing. Perhaps his business had made him a bit callous about making dead bodies out of live ones, and the motive was that he was experimenting with a new method of embalming. He realized that people in more ordinary occupations are a bit squeamish about dead bodies, so he nailed them up in the drawer, where he hoped nobody would ever find them.
I got up, at that point, and went in to take a cold bath, hoping it would clear my brain. It was only eleven o'clock, but I could not get back to sleep, and I had a restless desire to be up and out.
I wanted to take the bandage off my head but decided that Ken would be hurt, so I left it, and arranged the yellow ribbon over it again.
Lucy was still asleep, so I went out quietly. In the living room Mary lay on the couch where Ken and I had placed her, and seemed hardly to have moved. Not far away Ken was sleeping soundly on two chairs and looked thoroughly uncomfortable.
I hesitated and then backed quietly into the hall and crept out the front door. I went down the five flights of stairs and left the apartment by way of the rear exit. I had to sneak past a group of men, but they were all watching a fight between two little boys and did not notice me.
I walked for some distance, breathing in the fresh air and enjoying the exercise, and finally I went into a drugstore for a rest and a cool drink. The drink turned out to be a pineapple squash or something of the sort, and although it was a bit too sweet I enjoyed it until I found that I had forgotten to bring my purse and had no money to pay for it.
I sat there, wondering what the procedure was and whether I had an honest face, when I caught sight of Dotty Manchester sitting by herself and eating some sort of mess.
At the same time I realized that this was the drugstore in which I had overheard her conversation with John Emerson. Perhaps it was a regular hangout of hers, I thought, or possibly John came here regularly, and she was hoping to run across him. It seemed to me that she was eating slowly, with one eye on the door.
I joined her with a bright word of greeting and then discovered that she didn't know me and needed a little reminding. When it was all cleared up she became quite cordial and asked me to sit down with her. I explained my predicament, and she gave the hearty, full-bodied laugh that seems to go with certain blondes, and handed me some money. She settled down and became inquisitive after that, but none of our troubles seemed to interest her greatly, except as they touched John. So I concentrated on John, and she blossomed like a flower and was shortly doing most of the talking herself.
"You know, I was sorry about Betty," she said in a low voice, marking a pattern on her paper doily with a shining crimson thumbnail, "it was dreadful! But she was a deep one—she must have been in some sort of trouble, because nobody would kill her like that without a reason. I hear she was all wrapped up like a mummy?"
I nodded.
"Well, I think it must have been revenge. She was interested in that sort of thing—Egyptology, is it?—and she used to go to museums to study mummies and things like that, so I think somebody took a horrible sort of revenge and wrapped her up that way."
"Seems a queer thing to do, though," I murmured.
Dotty pushed the scarred doily away and leaned closer to me.
"She was hard as nails—and mean to John. She led him an awful life, and he took it like a gentleman. Of course she didn't understand him."
She seemed to be getting off the track a bit, so I tried to ease her back on.
"It's too bad about that eye of his," I suggested.
She drew back, looking startled. "But how did you know about it? He's so very sensitive."
I shrugged and asked, "How did it happen?"
"Well, my dear, it was most unfortunate. An automobile accident—and a flying sliver of glass. My husband had to remove the eye; he couldn't save it. But you'd never know, the way he looks now, would you?"
"No," I agreed, "you wouldn't. What about the first one—the black eye?"
"Oh, that was all John's nonsense," she declared impatiently. "It was perfectly all right, but John insisted it made him wink, and he was always carrying on about it being black instead of dark brown. It really was absurd, and my husband would have been furious if he had lived—he was very proud of that job. John had another one made, and that seemed to satisfy him."
She seemed suddenly to remember at that point that she hadn't been keeping an eye on the door, and she stopped talking abruptly and gave a careful look around, but John was nowhere in sight.
As soon as I could get her attention I said a graceful good-by and made my way out. I headed straight for the apartment, because without money I was lost, but I was determined to get my purse and come out again at once.
I had a little difficulty getting in. There was a janitor guarding the back door, and argument proved fruitless until I told him that I had come to clean for Mrs. Fredon and the madam would cut up rough if I failed to appear. He passed me through, after that, and I climbed the five flights and went panting in the front door, which I found unlocked.
I came face to face with Mary, who had a cold, grim, flint-eyed look about her.
She asked. "Where have you been?" and without waiting for an answer declared, "I'm going to find out who killed Homer, and I shall not rest until I do. I was going to phone that man Egbert—I can't find him anywhere—but perhaps you'll do it for me. Here's the number—Ken gave it to me—and I think he said he could be reached there at any time. I simply must see him."
She pressed a slip of paper into my hand, and I retired, sighing, to the little phone closet. I put the piece of paper down on a magazine that lay beside the phone—and
then paused to wonder why a magazine should be lying in the telephone booth in Mary's orderly apartment. I looked more attentively—and then stopped breathing for a moment.
In amongst the hair of the beautiful blonde who adorned the cover was a Binghamton telephone number—and just below was written: "The Black Eye."
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
I PUT MY CALL THROUGH and was told that Egbert would contact Mrs. Fredon as soon as Egbert was contacted. That seemed fair enough, so I hung up and sat there for a while, frowning at the magazine.
I heard Mary fussing out in the hall, and after considering it for a moment I picked up the magazine and went out to find her searching through the desk.
"Mary—?" I began, but she broke in feverishly: "I'm going through Homer's things—getting his affairs together—and I shall show them to that Egbert. He'll see then—he must see—that Homer's life was an open book. He should be searching for a maniac, because no one in his right mind could have wanted to kill Homer."
"Mary, look. What was this magazine doing in there beside the phone? You don't usually have magazines slopping around the place."
"Magazine?" she repeated vaguely. "Where? Oh—that. No, no, leave that in there—or wait, I'll get a newer one. I always leave a magazine there. Sometimes you have to wait, you know—or you get people like Lucy on the phone talking for hours about nothing."
She trotted off to get a more recent number, and I looked after her with a faint sigh of relief. She'd be all right, I thought. She was working off her shock and grief by running around and trying to do something about it.
I looked at my magazine again and wondered what it could possibly mean. The Binghamton number probably held the explanation of why Betty and Homer had made a trip there, but what did John's black eye have to do with it? I'd have to give the magazine to Egbert, I thought regretfully—and yet I wanted to call that number myself. I had no right to do it, of course—Egbert would be furious—and anyway, what would I say when the call was answered?
Lucy came into the hall and exclaimed, "Gene! Where in the world have you been? You missed lunch."
"I had some pineapple squash," I said absently.
"I can fix you something in two minutes," she offered amiably.
"No, thanks. Where's Ken?"
"He went out to market—and to look for you. He's taking Mary's car."
I had a sudden, exciting impulse, and I asked quickly, "How long has he been gone?"
"Just left. Why don't you go after him? Because I forgot flour—get a small bag—cake flour."
I tucked the magazine under my arm, and with Lucy shrieking directions about how to find the garage, I flew out the door and down the stairs. I just made it, for he had the car headed down the driveway as I panted up and hailed him. He stopped, leaned over and opened the door, and as I climbed in, asked abruptly, "Where have you been?"
"Making a daisy chain. Listen—how long does it take to get to Binghamton from here?"
"Why do you want to know?" he asked suspiciously.
"Stop the car for a minute, will you, and look at this."
He glanced at the magazine and muttered, "I should have insisted on having your head X-rayed."
"Maybe so, but stop the car anyway."
He drew up to the curb, and I exhibited my prize. He looked at it for some time and then said slowly, "This must be given to Egbert at once."
"Oh yes, of course," I agreed meekly. "But we could copy the number and then run up to Binghamton and call it."
"I don't think," he said in a discouraged voice, "that all that wool in your head would show up in an X ray, after all. Don't you see that Egbert could find out the address belonging to this number without warning them first by making a call?"
"Oh, shut up!" I said in exasperation. "And stop being such a good boy. You don't want to go back to that miserable apartment, do you? Let's drive on up now, and we can phone Egbert and let him follow us."
He began to show signs of weakening, but he glanced at the dashboard and murmured, "Gasoline."
"Well, drive to the station, for heaven's sake, and we'll go by train. Be quicker anyway."
He started the car up again and headed in the direction of the station. "This is absolute birdseed," he observed after a while, "but it might just save my furlough from utter deterioration."
We made the station in five minutes, and there Ken picked up information which shortly landed us in a train for New York. I had relaxed into a seat and was beginning to recover my breath when Ken remarked mildly that I didn't seem to be dressed, exactly, for an overnight trip.
"Overnight?" I echoed hollowly.
"We won't get there before early evening—and after we've attended to our business we won't have time to get back tonight, so you might as well make up your mind to it. Myself, I think it's a very nice idea—and remember, it was your suggestion."
"Don't get any ideas," I said sharply. "If we have to stay all night, then we have to—the same way that Betty and Homer did."
He slumped down in his seat, swatted at a fly, and presently suggested weakly. "Maybe we could get married somewhere."
"Maybe not—we can't afford it. I forgot to bring my purse, and what you can lend me, over and above train fares, etcetera, will have to be spent for a toothbrush and—"
"And nothing," he said, changing to his sergeant's voice. "I won't buy you a thing except dinner. You'll have to brush your teeth with your fingers"
"I'll do without the toothbrush." I agreed uneasily, "if you insist. But I must have a little powder and lipstick."
He was immediately restored to high good humor. "Nothing doing. I shall be interested to see what you look like without the disguise."
But even the impending horror of facial nudity couldn't keep me down for long. It was sheer delight to be well away from Mary's apartment, and there was an added zest in the possibility that at any minute a hand with a cop attached might fall on my shoulder, while a voice snarled. "Trying to make a dash for it. eh?"
However, we arrived in Binghamton unmolested, and Ken insisted that we have dinner before doing any telephoning.
"As far as I'm concerned," he declared; "this trip is pure pleasure until Egbert catches up with us—which ought to be at any minute. So let's delay business as long as possible."
He held a chair for me, and I sat down, shaking my head. "That's not my way—and I didn't come here for pleasure. I'd like to get the whole horrid mess cleared up, so that I needn't ever go back to Mary's dreadful apartment."
But Ken was already deep in a serious study of the menu and had stopped listening to me. I glanced over it, but there was nothing that appealed to me particularly, so I pushed it aside.
"I'll have what you have. No sense both of us wasting time over it. and this sort of thing is your specialty anyhow."
He laid the menu aside and asked, "What are you saying?"
"Nothing—except that if you can afford it I'll have the same."
A waiter loomed up at that point, and Ken took him in hand and poured out a mass of confusing instructions about our meal. The waiter's face froze over, but he stood by valiantly and, when Ken at last gave a name to the dish, stolidly wrote it down.
I left them to it and fell to studying the magazine again. The writing was not very obvious among the swirls of hair, and I was inclined to think that Egbert had missed it. On the other hand, of course, there was a decided possibility that he had already followed it up; in which case I was going to look pretty silly. And maybe I was going to look pretty silly anyway.
Ken finished with the waiter and became gay and amusing for my benefit. When the meal arrived he was a bit annoyed because I was unable to plow all the way through it, but after he had finished my remains himself he cheered up.
"As long as it's not wasted," he said philosophically, "I don't mind. But food shouldn't be wasted these days."
"It's a moot point," I argued, "whether it's more wasted in a garbage can or lying in a rubber tire around your m
iddle. Listen, let's go and phone now."
"Count me out," he said nastily. "If there's going to be any phoning you'll do it. This was your idea. I only came along for the ride."
I stood up in a huff and said, "All right, I'll attend to it myself," but as I flounced past him he caught at my dress.
"You'll need at least a nickel, and you'd better take a pencil and a piece of paper. You might want to write something down."
I waited while he fumbled for and then produced these articles, and marched off with my head in the air.
In the phone booth I hesitated, with the nickel clutched in a clammy hand, and wondered what I was going to say. I was sweating and my stomach was turning over, and since nothing whatever occurred to me I dropped the nickel in and went ahead with my mind a blank.
A man's voice answered, and after I had swallowed twice I heard myself blurt out, "Have you the black eye there?"
It was a moment before he replied, and when he did his voice sounded distinctly angry.
"I have told you before that I will not have the princess referred to as the Black Eye."
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
FROM THAT POINT ON I spoke more by instinct than anything else, for I don't believe my reason was functioning. I said, "I'm sorry, I'd forgotten. Could I—er—may I see—the princess?"
"Well..." The voice was reluctant now. "I suppose so. But I don't know why you should want to see her again."
"Oh. I mean I don't want to see her myself. It's—they're friends of mine. These friends of mine want to see her."
The voice took an upturn to cheerfulness. "Ah. With a view to purchase?"
"Yes. Yes, that's it."
"Very well. When may I expect them?"
The Black Dream_Rue Morgue Vintage Mysteries Page 17
