Crime is Murder

by Nielsen, Helen

  “As you know, I’m considering purchase of Masterson House,” she began, ignoring Johnny’s expression of dismay, “but I hesitate to take any action—sign anything, that is—without legal representation. It is an old house. There may be liens or back taxes. I don’t know if a man of your prominence has time to handle such things, but you’re the only lawyer I know in Bellville.”

  Tod Graham’s teeth gleamed in a swift smile. “Ordinarily I’d turn the matter over to my junior partner, Miss Bancroft. But in your case, I’d be offended if you consulted anyone else. After all, we’re practically old friends.”

  “And fellow committee members,” Lisa added.

  “Exactly. By the way, I’ve been meaning to thank you for the support you gave me at our last meeting. I was sure you’d have an eye to progress.”

  Lisa was surprised. She couldn’t remember having given Tod Graham any support, or opposition either, at the meeting; but perhaps he just took it for granted that silence meant assent. In any event, it wasn’t a sentiment to discourage.

  “I’m very interested in the music festival,” she said. “As a matter of fact, only this morning I spoke to Mr. Watts about making a small donation.”

  Tod’s hand was reaching toward the humidor. It hung there in happy expectancy.

  “Why, that’s very generous of you—”

  “But Mrs. Cornish came in just then and assured me no additional funds were needed.”

  “Nydia said that?”

  In his dismay, Tod completely forgot the humidor. The extended hand withdrew as quickly as that abruptly terminated expectancy. And then he seemed to remember there was such a thing as being too eager.

  “Not that we’re in any trouble,” he added quickly, “but I don’t think any music lover should be denied the chance to contribute to anything so worthwhile. You must remember that Nydia Cornish is a very proud woman, and the festival is her baby, so to speak. She just doesn’t realize how the baby has grown.”

  Into motor courts and restaurants? Lisa thought the question but didn’t speak. Tod was doing all right without prompting.

  “It’s her one remaining splash of glory,” he added.

  “I thought it was a memorial to her beloved husband,” Johnny remarked.

  “Oh, it is. I don’t mean to belittle Nydia’s sentiment. Still, she is a Bell and this is Bellville. You can’t be the third generation of a dynasty and not want to rule even if the kingdom has toppled. But don’t get me wrong. I like Nydia. She’s difficult to get along with, I’ll admit, but it doesn’t hurt any of us to humor her a little. She’s an asset to Bellville. A link with the past.”

  A living link with Martin Cornish. That’s what you mean, isn’t it, Tod? An attraction, a curiosity, to set up on the platform on award night for all the tourists to see.

  “But she doesn’t know a damn thing about finances, if you’ll pardon my bluntness,” Tod added. “Now, if you really want to make a contribution, Miss Bancroft—”

  “It was merely a suggestion,” Lisa said.

  Tod tried to conceal his disappointment. He wasn’t very good at it. There was an ugly moment when Lisa felt sorry for his wife.

  “Before I do anything of a financial nature, I’d have to be more familiar with the economic structure of the Cornish Memorial. Then, too, I’m awaiting the transfer of funds from my New York bank.” Lisa hesitated, measuring the degree of understanding in Tod’s face. It was amazing how many people thought a novelist, particularly a feminine novelist, had no business sense. Tod Graham wasn’t too old to learn. But too many lessons could antagonize the pupil and defeat the purpose of her call. “I assume the Merchant’s Bank is sound,” she added. “There doesn’t seem to be any alternative.”

  “Sound? Why, of course—”

  “I know it’s foolish of me to be apprehensive. It’s just that—well, Mr. Watts isn’t exactly the prototype of the dynamic leader.”

  Just enough lessons, just enough recess. Lisa was developing the instincts of a natural-born teacher. Tod Graham laughed.

  “I know what you mean, Miss Bancroft. Stodgy is the word for Stanley. But the banks sound enough. At least, I hope it is. That’s where Mrs. Graham and I keep our little nest egg. And speaking of Mrs. Graham, she’s been after me to ask you to dinner one night. You too, Miss Johnson, of course.”

  “Thanks,” Johnny said.

  “I think Ruth’s planning a little—well, a little welcoming party. Nothing big. Just some of the people who hope to be your neighbors.”

  Some of the people who want to get an autographed copy of a book they’ve combed the book stores to get and will never read—fortunately. Some of the people who want to tell their friends about having dinner with that famous writer—now what is her name? Johnny grinned in wicked expectancy of the dodge Tod was going to get, but Lisa smiled as graciously as if she meant it when she said,

  “Why, I’d be delighted, Mr. Graham. Now that we’re all moved in, I’ve been thinking of having a small party myself. I do want to get to know all my neighbors.”

  They were halfway up the Pineview Road before Johnny ran out of invectives. Something was in the wind, and Johnny didn’t like to have anything going on without her knowledge. As long as she was going to be upset, she might as well have a little more to think about.

  “I wonder,” Lisa mused half aloud, “what might be the maiden name of Tod Graham’s wife.”

  That was all she said. There wasn’t any more to say.

  And then they were turning into the drive at Masterson House again, with the sunlight making soft patterns through the pines and the grass freckled with dandelions after the rain. Carrie, none the worse for her recent escapade, was out with her canvas bag making the most of the new crop. She came to her feet at the sight of the station wagon and came toward them.

  “You got an invite to tea up at that house,” she announced.

  “So soon?” Lisa echoed.

  “Not wasting any time, is she?” Johnny said. “When is the ‘invite,’ and for how many?”

  Hopefully she asked. Dejectedly she heard.

  “Four o’clock this afternoon, an’ Miss Bancroft was the only one mentioned. She made the call herself.” There was no doubt as to the identity of such an important herself. “Talked real friendly. Asked about my head an’ all.”

  And then Carrie frowned in quick remembrance.

  “Wouldn’t catch me goin’ near that house, let alone inside it. It’s cursed, that’s what it is. It’s got the curse of death on it.”

  “Darn it,” Johnny said, “I’d give my right arm just to see inside the mansion.”

  “If you believe what Carrie tells you, it might cost at least that much,” Lisa observed. Carrie was out of earshot now. She could speak freely.

  “But I haven’t even seen the old girl except to pass her on the road one day. Just caught a glimpse of her sitting like a queen in the back seat of that ancient jalopy—chauffeur-driven, mind you. Imagine a chauffeur-driven limousine in a dump like Bellvelle!”

  “Maybe she can’t drive.”

  “She hasn’t since her widowhood. Seems she’s become very much the grande dame of the old school. Can’t stoop to menial labor of any kind. Carrie gave me the low-down.”

  “That’s one thing Carrie could give you,” Lisa remarked. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d just as soon form my own opinions of Bell Mansion and its mistress.”

  Without prejudice. Lisa smiled at herself as the thought came. It was too late for that. All she’d heard—yes, even the sight of the great house on the hill—was enough to make four o’clock the most exciting hour in many a day. And it meant dressing, of course. Not formally, but in enough fashion not to offend the ruling matron of the bluff. You’re not the butcher’s daughter any more, Lisa. You don’t overdress. Just be smart. Fashionably smart. And aloof. Poised. Don’t show how eager you are to see the house of mystery—or how afraid.

  Because she was afraid. With a sense of startled recognition, L
isa became aware of this as she made her way once more up that hillside path almost lost through years of disuse. She could have come the front way, using the road to the stone-pillared gate, but the hill path was shorter and gave that magnificent view of the house to study on the way. It was the first time she’d seen it in sunlight. It was less foreboding that way, but not so attractive. Like an aging demirep caught in the glare of light, every flaw, every chipped stone, every cracked and peeling painted surface, every toppling trellis and weed-infested arbor told the story of faded glory. The end of a dynasty. Tod Graham had used the term, and it seemed appropriate. The mansion was both sad and ridiculous. But why fearful? With quickened pulse Lisa rang the bell. Don’t be foolish, Lisa. You’re not the butcher’s daughter any more.

  A little old man, white-haired and shrunken with age, opened the door. The chauffeur. Lisa recognized him at once although he looked much smaller on his feet than perched on the high seat of the old limousine. Once beyond the old-fashioned vestibule, she feasted her eyes on a hall of such Victorian splendor that the shade of that august monarch herself would have been delighted by its ornate magnificence. Dominating the hall was a wide staircase, and Lisa found her gaze drawn upward. Pierre Duval had died in this house. Were these the stairs? Could Carrie be right? Had there been a sound of quarreling, an impetuous shove, and then disaster for a man with a silver plate in his skull? This was no mood in which to start a social call, but Lisa’s gaze traveled down again and clung to a spot of flooring at the bottom of the stairs. Death. A house of death. “This way, please, Miss Bancroft.”

  The little man with white hair had a voice softened with a lifetime of servility. Was he the only servant? The thought was startling in a house of such size. Carrie might manage. Carrie might manage the White House single-handed, but not this fragment of a man. But all wool-gathering ceased when Lisa was ushered into a large sunroom with a surprising—and welcome—twentieth-century atmosphere. Not that it was modern. It had been—the very latest in rattan and cretonne—back in about nineteen twenty-eight. The only changes that had been made since were in the nature of deterioration. But one didn’t have to look that closely. One shouldn’t. One should smile graciously at the hostess, express pleasure at this delightful diversion, and try not to show awareness of her faded chiffon elegance, as overdone as that rococo grand hall, or the completely staged effect of the whole scene.

  The tea things—silver service and bone china—sat on a low table in front of Nydia’s fan-backed chair. Nearby, quite proper and subdued (A nice young lady doesn’t go about hurling paperweights. Aren’t you ashamed?) sat a Marta Cornish Lisa had never seen. No flamboyant scarlet-lined rainhood to set off her black-haired beauty, no bright yellow dress blowing like a defiant flag against the darkening sky, Marta was pastel today, soft, sweet, and genteel.

  And artificial, Lisa thought. Everything is as artificial as the garden scene of a summer-stock comedy. She found herself looking about for the croquet set.

  Then the amenities were over.

  “I do hope you’ll excuse the light tea,” Nydia said, presiding over the table. “No one seems to eat very much in hot weather. I thought just a few sandwiches—”

  They were few. Few, small, and plain. Lisa didn’t mind at all, she’d come to listen, not to eat; but all that chiffon elegance seemed a bit out of place.

  And it’s quite old chiffon, Lisa. It’s even been mended in a few places.

  “Marta eats like a bird,” the hostess added. “It worries me at times. But her father was the same way. Whenever he was deep in concentration on some work, I had to tag after him with a tray to make sure he ate anything at all. He would become completely absorbed in his music.”

  Lisa caught a signal in Nydia’s eyes. After all, she had been invited for a purpose.

  “Speaking of music,” she said, turning toward the strangely silent Marta, “how is the concerto coming?”

  Marta stared at her cup.

  “I understand all entries are to be in by the first of July.”

  “Oh, Marta’s will be ready,” Nydia said brightly. “She merely has to brush up a few phrases here and there. Why don’t you play some of it for Miss Bancroft, Marta? I’m sure it will be all right. She’s quite impartial.”

  It was the first time anyone had called Lisa impartial, but she didn’t argue. She had eyes only for Marta now. Marta the silent, the subdued, with a trace of a pout for a danger signal and a shadow of trouble lurking in those downcast eyes. (Play nicely for the lady, Marta. Show what a brilliant child you are.) There was resentment in every movement of her body as she walked listlessly to the piano. It stood before the windows looking out over the hill. Far below were the charred ruins of the old studio.

  Marta began to play. She played mechanically. She might have been some pretty little toy with a winding key in her back. Now Lisa pried her mind away from the magnetic fascination of those ruins below the hill and tried to concentrate on what she heard. Part of the melody was familiar. Yes, last night she’d heard it as she started up the hill path on an ill-fated mission. But last night it was different. It was alive.

  Play nicely for the lady, Marta.

  Suddenly, Lisa was angry. She knew this child. She was deliberately spoiling her composition, deliberately delaying its completion. Even if she did complete it in time for the entry dead line, played in this spiritless manner before the judges, it would take more than the keen ear of Sir Anthony to find merit in the work. And yet she wanted to win. The award meant escape—and Joel.

  She stopped playing after a bit and let her hands drop to her lap. She looked up with poker-faced defiance.

  There, are you satisfied? Have I played nicely enough?

  “Of course, that’s only a small part of the composition,” Nydia said. One thin hand worked nervously at a long strand of amber beads about her neck. It reminded Lisa of old Dr. Hazlitt and his watch chain.

  “It’s very nice,” Lisa said. Nice was a silly word, but it was the only one she could think of. And then the wave of anger came again. There was more to Marta Cornish than a stubborn, defiant brat. She could play. She did have talent. Before discretion could stop her, Lisa was on her feet and at the piano.

  “I’ve heard you playing as I walked about,” she said. “There’s one part I particularly like. It has such a haunting melody. Let me see—”

  This was no place for a two-fingered pianist, but the theme Lisa picked out was so plaintively simple it could not go unrecognized. She waited for Marta to pick up the melody. No musician could remain mechanical with such a melody. But Marta’s hands, although they tightened into fists, remained in her lap. Then silence came. The dead, sickening silence of realization that something wrong has been done.

  Nydia Cornish came to her feet.

  “You are wrong, Miss Bancroft. That is no part of Marta’s composition.”

  “But it’s quite lovely—”

  “I think it’s quite inferior. It’s some childish foolishness she’s picked up somewhere. For all I know, it may have come from a carnival carousel!”

  All the niceties were over. All the careful conduct of that friendly little tea vanished in a flash of anger. Not the hot anger of the child. The icy anger of the mother. Lisa stood between them for an instant, the puzzled instigator of a scene of changing moods. Now the mechanical doll was alive. She, too, came to her feet and pushed Lisa aside.

  “What do you know about music?” she cried at her mother’s face. “What do you know about anything important—anything real! What do you know about love?”

  At Carrie she’d hurled a paperweight, at her mother a knife of accusation. Lisa saw it sink deep, saw Nydia tremble and turn pale, and then one hand, the hand that had played with the beads, drew back and struck Marta across the face.

  “You devil!” she said. “You she-devil!”

  CHAPTER 13

  It was one of those terrible moments that should occur only on a stage where a merciful curtain can be dropped. But
there was no curtain. There was the smart crack of Nydia’s hand across the girl’s face, the words—more exploded than spoken—and then three embarrassed people each of whom would have preferred to be anywhere but where she was. Instinctively, Marta responded to her desire. Like a colt breaking tether, she fled. Seconds later the front door slammed behind her with a reverberating thud. It was a signal for Nydia to return to awareness.

  One thin hand groped toward her throat. She looked at least sixty-five at that moment.

  “Oh, such a terrible thing to say!” she moaned. “I didn’t mean—I didn’t mean—”

  Her eyes found Lisa’s face. They were wild with remorse.

  “It’s just that I don’t understand her. Can’t you see that, Miss Bancroft? Can’t you see what her outbursts do to me? Talk to her. Please talk to her!”

  Lisa had seen. She’d seen far more than she was meant to see. Now there was an excuse to leave without further ceremony, and she took advantage of it. Marta was running away again, just as she’d run away last night. This time there was no wounded Carrie to look after; Lisa could follow.

  She was glad to be free of the house. The long drive reached like an empty sleeve through the pines. She could see as far as the two stone pillars, but there was no sign of Marta. Where else? There was an old summer pavilion in what had once been a rose garden—empty. There was the path bending down and out of sight over the hill. It was instinct that led Lisa now. When a child runs to hide, there must be a hiding place. An old, familiar hiding place.