The Ghosts' High Noon

by John Dickson Carr

  “What’s he supposed to have done?”

  “Ah, there we come to it!” Leo drew a deep breath. “You know, Jim, you may be right about killing the story for the press. In fact, I think you are right; I had doubts as soon as I talked to Clay. And he’s not the only load on my mind. I’m beginning to get badly worried about something that involves me, too. I was worried when we were on that train; I’m pretty damnably worried now.”

  “Something that involves you, too?”

  “Me, your old pal, moi gui vous parte! But forget your Uncle Leo, for the moment. Let’s agree any news story must die the death at once, and get back to our harassed Clay. As I sit here thinking about him…”

  “Where are you now, Leo?”

  “I’m at home, eating a sandwich and drinking, believe it or not, a glass of milk.”

  “Where’s the harassed candidate for Congress?”

  “He’s at home, too, or was when I saw him last. He couldn’t face the office today. He’ll be spending the evening—and the night, too, no doubt—with his fair Yvonne at the Villa de Jarnac near good old Bayou St. John. But there he is now, penned in a corner and thinking the world’s come to an end! As I said before, I want to nail the bastard who’s behind this. Does that concern you, too? Are you interested in ferreting out the facts, even though you never use ’em?”

  “Of course I’m interested, Leo! ‘Interested’ is too mild a word. In this job, some of the best stories you get are the stories you can’t use.”

  “All right! You and little Jill,” momentarily Leo made noises away from the phone, “seemed much exercised about a character named Flossie Yates.”

  “Well?”

  “Flossie, Jim, offers a certain service to the community. Have you figured out what that service is?”

  “No, though I’ve had one or two ideas about Clay Blake. This alleged ‘service,’ you said, entails nothing abnormal or unnatural…”

  “Nothing abnormal or unnatural, I said, in the way you meant it! Would you like to go out and learn the nature of the service?”

  “Why not tell me what it is?”

  “Under instructions, and according to my sworn promise, I mustn’t tell you that unless Clay tells you. But there’s no promise to stop you from investigating. Just how earnest a truth-seeker are you, after all? What will you do, where will you go and how far, to get your claws on the facts at last? In short, Jim, have you got the nerve to tackle Flossie for yourself?”

  7

  ABOVE THE ROLLTOP DESK, in that antiquated room, hung an antiquated framed picture not unskilled of drawing or color. Called Gentlemen of the Jury in raised red letters along the lower frame, it showed twelve be-whiskered figures wilting and inattentive under what was presumably a bombardment of evidence.

  The murky day threw shadows across it as Jim glanced up. But most vividly he could picture Leo, sitting some distance away over the sandwich and the glass of milk.

  “Did you hear what I said?” the other demanded. “Have you got the nerve?”

  “I think I can manage, if it’s necessary.”

  “’Fraid it’s necessary, old son. You could ask somebody else, maybe; but since you’re a stranger here and wouldn’t know whom to ask…”

  “Will there be some risk attached to this, Leo?”

  “Only risk to what’s humorously called your good name,” Leo snorted. “You’re in no danger of being clubbed over the head or getting a knife in your back, if that’s what you mean. On the contrary! Unless she’s paid out some heavy bribe-money, which may be the case, it’s Flossie herself who’s been running one hell of a risk.”

  “If these houses in Storyville are operated strictly within the law, how can she run any risk?”

  “Because her house isn’t in Storyville; it’s on the sacred Esplanade.”

  “On the sacred what?”

  Leo snorted again.

  “Esplanade Avenue, once sacred to the homes of wealthy Creoles, and still a good neighborhood in anybody’s book. I’m looking for her address and phone number at this minute. Yes, here we are! ‘Miss Florence Yates, 691 Esplanade Avenue, phone Main 0101.’

  “Flossie’s a lady of refinement, you’d better hear, or puts up a good show of being one. You’ll have to phone first and make an appointment with her, you know. You may not want to use your own name, but you’d better use mine as a reference. Got everything so far?”

  “Yes, I think so. ‘Miss Florence Yates, 691 Esplanade Avenue, phone Main 0101.’”

  “Then here’s what you do. Phone today and make an appointment for this afternoon. This afternoon, mind, not tonight; I’ve got other pursuits in mind for you tonight.

  “Treat Flossie as you’d treat a duchess. Begin with some trivial pleasantries; then say you understand her niece is visiting her, or will visit her shortly, and you’d very much like to meet the niece. Let Flossie take it from there, and see what happens.”

  “Her niece is visiting her. Do I name the niece?”

  “No.” Leo gave a subdued whoop. “Since you’re accepting the challenge and walking into it blindfolded, Jim, more power to you! And more power to me; I may need it. If I weren’t so hellish worried about Clay and about myself, too, I might almost enjoy what’s happening or is going to happen.

  “I’d better ring off now; I’ve got many things to do. But you won’t forget about tonight, will you? Be at the hotel after dinner, within easy reach of a phone; you’re going to get a message. In the meantime, old son, stay on the alert and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. That’s all.”

  The line went dead. Jim also hung up the receiver. He rose to his feet, took a last look around at the antiquated furnishings, and then went back to the adjoining office.

  Alec Laird, in high collar and lounge suit so formal it suggested a cutaway coat without being one, was just closing the door to the reception room.

  “Goodbye, Aunt Mathilde. For the last time, you may expect us to dinner unless some crisis arises!”

  Departing Aunt Mathilde and her son could hardly have heard the last few words, which were addressed to a closed door. The Sentinel’s acting owner turned towards his desk and met Jim.

  “It seems most discourteous to turn them out after only fifteen minutes,” he said, “and I fear I betrayed impatience from the first. But my esteemed aunt can be something of a handful, Mr. Blake. She means well and she’s essentially kind-hearted, but she never lets up; she goes on and on and on. I’m not altogether happy about the boy, either. He won’t do a lick of work; we can’t interest him in anything except the cars he mustn’t drive. Stay, though!—”

  Clearly to make sure the visitors had really gone, Alec Laird returned to the glass-paneled door and opened it.

  Though the visitors had gone, another presence seemed just to have arrived in their place. The reception-room door to the top-floor corridor was wide open, propped by somebody’s left foot. In the aperture stood a big man with an unruly shock of gray-white hair, a yellow copy-pencil in his hand. The corridor lay empty behind him.

  “Is it all right, Alec?” he called. “May I exercise a managing editor’s privilege of dropping in on the boss without somebody to run interference?”

  Alec Laird showed no impatience with this particular visitor.

  “By all means join us, Bart! I have something to say; you had better hear it and be in on it.”

  The newcomer advanced, letting the door swing shut on its air-cushion piston. It would have been hard to determine why he gave the impression of being both shaggy and untidy, since in fact, apart from the shock of hair, he was neither.

  “Thanks, Alec,” he said. “It’s all over the city room, apparently by mental telepathy, that some eminent New York member of the Fourth Estate has been here with you in the eyrie.”

  And Jim was introduced to Barton Perkins, managing editor of the Sentinel.

  Rapidly explaining the errand for Harper’s Weekly, their host installed them in chairs on either side of his desk, and sat ba
ck with his fingertips together.

  “Now, Mr. Blake. You have just been on the phone at some length with Leo Shepley. I imagine he has arranged for you to meet our candidate for Congress from the Second District?”

  “Leo’s arranged it, yes. But it’s not convenient today. I’m to see him tomorrow, in time to get off a story by phone or wire and meet Thursday’s deadline.”

  Bart Perkins, who seemed to be laboring under strong if suppressed excitement, turned the yellow pencil in his fingers.

  “As a matter of fact,” the managing editor said, “I’d heard you were supposed to be an old classmate of Leo’s. Are you one of the former football heroes, too?”

  “No. Baseball was my game; I loved baseball, though I was never better than a tolerable second-string first baseman.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that. I’m a Pennsylvanian myself; got my training in Oil City and Philadelphia; never even strayed south of the Mason-Dixon Line until Alec’s father imported me to take over the Sentinel. But in my own baseball days…”

  “If you will forgive me, Bart,” interposed Alec Laird, “we have something here that more immediately concerns us than any discussion of football or baseball.”

  “Of course; I know. Sorry, Alec!”

  “No apology is needed. May we continue our discussion, Mr. Blake, from the point at which we were interrupted?”

  “What exactly were we discussing?”

  “You asked whether this newspaper would cooperate with you in presenting to the large public of the Weekly some impression—a very favorable impression, let’s hope—of our own Mr. Blake from Louisiana. I promised the fullest cooperation, always subject to some small difficulty which might arise.”

  “Had you any particular difficulty in mind?”

  “Indeed I had, sir. I was approaching it when the invaders entered. I will do so again, though my approach must be somewhat circuitous.”

  Alec Laird twisted at a vest-button.

  “The whole situation is difficult in itself. With election day not three weeks ahead, we are in a sad muddle about presidential candidates. Mr. Taft, who seems likely to be unseated, has forever maintained the soundest old-fashioned principles, although he does suffer from the horrible stigma of being a Republican. We must support Governor Wilson, I fear. Unfortunately, sir, we have had no responsible Democrat in the White House since the days of Grover Cleveland. If you remind me that since the days of Grover Cleveland we have had no Democrat in the White House, I concede the fact but stick to my point.”

  “You’re saying…?”

  “Politically, at least, there are no difficulties about Claiborne Blake. His principles are those of his father or mine; he wants no traffic with sweeping reform.”

  “Good for him!”

  “I am glad to hear you say so. Clay is an able man, a sound man. Once elected to the House of Representatives, he will have the highest regard for his public duty. If perhaps he seems too popular for his own good, if there is still about him a certain (what shall I say?), a certain flightiness associated with youth, this will soon disappear when he settles down.”

  “Alec—!” began Bart Perkins.

  But he did not continue. The acting owner continued, up to a point.

  “It would be the greatest pity, I maintain, if such momentary flightiness should mar a promising career. While you are with us, sir, you may hear Clay’s name linked with the name of…the name of…!”

  “Goddamn it, Alec,” Bart Perkins burst out, as the man behind the desk was struck with vocal paralysis, “if you mean the Brissard woman, why don’t you say so and be done with it?”

  Alec’s hand went to his throat.

  “Very well. I will be frank and mention her by name, though I had not intended to do so. Many persons, I know, are inclined to treat Clay’s association with this common strumpet much more lightly than I do. It is unlikely to do him any irreparable harm. And yet…and yet…You asked for my cooperation, sir. Will you cooperate with me?”

  “In any way I can, believe me.”

  “You will be discreet, I trust? You won’t embarrass all his friends unnecessarily? You will let fall no hint, however veiled, of a liaison in the background?”

  “Depend on me entirely, Mr. Laird. My namesake seems a very decent sort, from everything I hear; that he’s a friend of Leo Shepley would be recommendation enough. If you want me to build him up, I’ll build him up to the best of my ability. And forget Yvonne Brissard; I’ve already forgotten her; she’s very small potatoes. If Yvonne Brissard were all I had to worry about…!”

  “If she were all you had to worry about?” blurted the managing editor, starting to get up with a jump but sitting down again and shifting the yellow pencil to his left hand. “I agree the wench is small potatoes; I’ve told Alec that. But what about Clay Blake? What else has our gay Lothario been up to?”

  Jim spread out his hands.

  “Nothing at all that I’ve heard described,” he replied, with strict truth but less than strict candor. “When I spoke of worry, Mr. Perkins, I meant the kind of worry you and I have both known at one time or another: falling down on a story, missing a deadline, arguing with some telegraph operator who sees no need to transmit copy fast. My namesake’s behavior is irrelevant. Supposing him to have seduced half the women in Louisiana, that’s outside my province. Even if you imagine I would write such muckraking, do you imagine Colonel Harvey would print it?”

  “That sounds fair enough, apparently,” the managing editor admitted, “so I’d better cease and desist. But I’m a pretty good reader of faces. And there was a look in your eye, Mr. Reporter Turned Novelist, that had nothing to do with the tricks of our trade. What do you say, Alec?”

  “I say this gentleman is right.” Alec Laird contemplated Jim with approval. “I regret having labored the point, and would not have brought it up at all if—”

  A light tap at the door preceded the entrance, somewhat flurried, of a dumpy, middle-aged, apple-cheeked woman with a pince-nez, carrying a tray on which cylindrical cardboard container and sugar bowl were flanked by two cups and saucers.

  “My secretary, Miss Edgeworth,” Alec Laird announced to everybody in general.

  “It’s a little late for morning coffee,” said Miss Edgeworth, tapping the cardboard container. “But I met Ruth Donnelly bringing this up from the drug-store. She said you wanted only two cups, sir, though I thought old Mrs. Laird and her son were here. Now I see there are three of you. I can get another cup in half a minute…”

  “No coffee for me, thank you,” said Bart Perkins. “It’ll be lunchtime in an hour or so, when something stronger is indicated.”

  “Put the tray on my desk, please,” Alec Laird directed. “You’ll join me, Mr. Blake? Good! Will you be kind enough to serve us, Miss Edgeworth?”

  “With p-pleasure, sir, if you’ll add your own sugar. The cream’s already in. But—but—!”

  “Is there something else on your mind, Miss Edgeworth? You seem a little…”

  “I’m afraid I am, sir. There’s been another of those anonymous phone calls!”

  “Not again, strike me blind?” exclaimed the managing editor. “Who got the call this time, Miss Edgeworth?”

  “It was that new girl in your office, Mr. Perkins: Mary Somebody.”

  “She had the call this morning, did she?”

  “No, Mr. Perkins. The actual call came late yesterday afternoon, as she was leaving the office just before dark. She didn’t say anything about it at the time. But this morning some p-perfectly innocent man rang up, and by accident began with the same words the phone-fiend had used yesterday. Poor Mary nearly went through the roof. She’s in tears and hysterics now, and…”

  “It’s all right, madam!” Bart Perkins assured her. “I’ll be along in just one moment to deal with it. Mustn’t have my little family upset, now must I?”

  The secretary addressed her employer.

  “May I add something, sir? That police officer who was here t
he other day seemed very considerate and understanding for a police officer, if you see what I mean. Don’t you think we might…?”

  “I most certainly do think so, should police action become necessary. This is really intolerable; trust Mr. Perkins and me! Thank you, Miss Edgeworth; that will be all.”

  The secretary departed. Jim, having accepted a cup of coffee, opened his mouth to speak but checked himself. It was no time to ask questions about anonymous phone calls, especially since Bart Perkins, though he sat glowering, referred to the matter only in a perfunctory way.

  “Who’d have my job, for the love of Mike? You were saying, Alec, just before Sara Edgeworth walked in…?”

  “We may rely on our guest’s discretion, Bart; we know that now. I should never even have questioned it, I was saying, but for a remark Colonel Harvey made about him.”

  Jim set down his cup on the edge of the desk. “Colonel Harvey took some dig at me?”

  “Hardly that, sir. He gave you high praise as a reporter, but added that you seemed unduly attracted to crime and the sensational.”

  “He told me that, too.”

  “It seems something of a coincidence that the police officer Miss Edgeworth mentioned, one Lieutenant Trowbridge, should have called here collecting for charity a week ago, since it may be necessary to summon him in his professional capacity. It would seem a really startling coincidence if I told you what Lieutenant Trowbridge insisted on talking about.

  “But that’s not the point, is it?

  “Crime and the sensational!” Alec Laird seemed to muse. “We have a sufficiency of both in New Orleans, though I firmly instruct Bart and Harry to play them down. My alleged fondness for power, Mr. Blake, is merely the wish that this newspaper may instruct and edify according to its declared purpose. Are you so much attracted by crime and the sensational, sir?”

  “Not by crime of itself, or by the sensational per se either. To attract the connoisseur of such matters, your criminal case must have a strong element of mystery and some prospect of an unexpected ending. There are few such cases in real life, as Colonel Harvey would be the first to tell you. Offhand, but from fairly wide reading, I can recall only two causes célèbres which occurred in New Orleans within living memory. Each was sensational and sordid enough, but neither had much of the element called mystery.”