He set the bottle down and turned full upon me. "Not only that, but my mother's maiden name was Phoebe Wright; my father's name was David Jones; I was born in New York City on the ninth day of June 1908; I am not an anarchist nor am I a polygamist; and I have no present plans to overthrow the government."
I felt my face grow hot and I said resentfully, "If you'd been in moth balls as long as I have—"
He patted my head paternally. "Peace, Smithy."
I laughed and said, "All right. Here, let me help you with that."
We took the two glass pitchers that had to serve as cocktail shakers into the parlor, and I brought out some long-unused wineglasses. Freda had come down, dressed in a cheap, ill-fitting evening gown of bright red. John was there, too, either looking into space or at a crack in the wall which needed repairing.
I looked at the huge Christmas tree, the gaily wrapped parcels beneath it, and could hardly believe that we had spent so little money on it all. I had arranged the table in the dining room during the morning, and I glanced in to admire it afresh. It looked so impressive that I lingered at the door, wondering what sort of startling show I could have put on if I had any real money to spend on it.
Richard Jones materialized at my side with a cocktail and a pair of faintly elevated brows.
"It is for the guests to admire the decorations," he suggested, offering the cocktail and keeping the brows in the air.
I took the drink and made a face at him. "Then why don't you?"
"I've been admiring you," he said impersonally, "so I haven't got around to them yet. I like blond hair with brown eyes, and your skin is ivory rather than pink and white, which is as it should be. You have a very pretty little figure too, and your hair has glints in it, which is vastly better than the dull type of blond hair."
"How embarrassing, if I'd been born a brunette," I murmured.
I caught sight of Berg staggering towards the fireplace with a load of logs, and I hurried after him.
"My God, Berg," I said in an undertone, "those logs are like gold bricks around here. There'll be a row."
He dropped the logs onto the hearth with a crash, and squatting down, began busily to put a fire together.
"If the dear old soul squawks," he said out of the side of his mouth, "tell her the wood caught fire in the cellar, and I brought the logs up to the fireplace so that they would not be wasted. I've made up my mind that this party is going to be a success in spite of her."
I left him with a shrug. I couldn't blame him. I felt the same way about the party.
Freda was sitting against the wall, looking a perfect example of the "I don't smoke, drink, or pet" class, in spite of the red dress. I felt a spasm of pity for her, and I went over and whispered to her to come and find a comfortable chair in front of the fire before they were all taken. She followed me docilely and seated herself rather stiffly in an armchair in front of the blaze that Berg had produced from the dry old logs.
Rhynda came down, and I could see that she was annoyed at not being the last. I felt sure she had waited until she thought her archenemy, Amy, had gone down. But apparently Amy had outwaited her.
We started to have a good time. Richard Jones and Berg had had a few cocktails. I was on my second. Rhynda, looking very lovely in an exotic evening gown, in which she was probably freezing to death, tossed off three drinks in about as many minutes. Freda sat upright in the armchair and seemed to be studying her shoes.
We were laughing and talking when Amy came in with Donald Tait, and they were hardly noticed, which was exactly what Rhynda wanted, I suppose. Amy looked interesting and bizarre, as usual. She was not half as good-looking as Rhynda, but her bad points—the too-large nose and the too-thin lips—were so expertly minimized that you scarcely noticed them. Her figure was actually a bit too meager, but she was draped in an expensive silver lame gown that rounded her out very cleverly. She had heavy black hair and very large, dark eyes. Her eyes were her best feature.
I had forgotten Mrs. Ballinger entirely, and it was not until some ten minutes later, at the height of the noise and gaiety, that I suddenly caught sight of her standing at the door in her black lace gown and looking thunder at all of us. I remembered that I was supposed to have hooked her into her dress, and I realized resignedly that I was in for it.
She beckoned to me imperiously, and I went to her, absent-mindedly carrying my glass with me. A mistake, of course. She looked me over from head to foot.
"I'm surprised at you, and disappointed in you, Leigh. I never thought you'd drink that stuff. And why didn't you come to hook me up? I had a dreadful time. And who lit that fire? You know very well we don't need a fire in here."
"I didn't light the fire, Mrs. Ballinger," I said hastily. "I'm sorry about it, but Berg seemed to want it—"
"Where did they get the ingredients for those cocktails?" she interrupted fiercely. "They must have brought the liquor with them. Certainly I have none in the house. But I know you can't make cocktails with liquor alone, you have to use other things. Now, what was it they used?"
I stood before her in helpless silence, thinking of the mounds of empty orange halves that had been piled up around the Jones man in the butler's pantry. I knew we'd have to go without fruit for breakfast.
My mind flew around like a squirrel in a cage and came to no conclusion. And then someone touched my arm, and I turned to see Richard Jones bowing ceremoniously.
"Mrs. Ballinger, I want to offer my profound thanks for this charming party. Such a charming old house, and such a—er—charming hostess. It makes me a little dizzy."
"That's not the charm, that's the cocktails," I said out of the side of my mouth. He was putting it on so thickly that I felt a bit embarrassed for him. But a glance at Mrs. Ballinger showed me that she had swallowed it whole. She was positively glowing, so I slipped away, thankful to have the accounting delayed for a while.
Five minutes later, Doris spoiled the general effect of opulence by shuffling to the door and admitting that she'd finished preparing the dinner. She eyed us for a moment and added a warning that we'd better put down them glasses and come at once or it would be cold.
Doris was a born cook, and the dinner was a success. She had a knack for making tasty dishes from the cheapest of ingredients. By the time we had finished dinner the party was quite hilarious, and when we returned to the parlor Donald Tait produced some brandy.
The Ballingers belonged to that school of thought that holds with opening the packages on Christmas Eve, so we attacked them, and the brandy, together. There is nothing like being a little tight when you open your Christmas presents. Instead of being disappointed with most of the things, you find them all screamingly funny.
All in all, it was a highly successful evening, but there was one incident that lay in my mind and faintly troubled me. I saw Rhynda and Richard Jones with their heads together, clicking their glasses and drinking a toast. His arm was across her shoulders. John was standing directly behind them, staring at them. He was clearly very angry. His hands were clenched, and his face had an ugly expression.
I saw it for only a few seconds, and then Amy and Donald Tait danced past and blocked it from view. When I next had a chance to look, John had left the group and was sitting in a chair, smoking. He looked so much his usual self that I wondered a little if I had been mistaken about it all. But I could not forget it.
I watched Rhynda and Richard after that, and there was no doubt that they were sticking together a great deal. Berg joined them sometimes, but Berg was more or less in circulation, moving around the room from group to group and laughing and joking as he always did.
Amy kept Donald Tait close by her side, which was the usual procedure with Amy and her young men, and possibly the reason for her having a new one every six months or so.
John sat and smoked by himself for a while, and then the next time I noticed him he had drifted into the company of Mrs. Hannahs and was amiably explaining to her exactly what was necessary to be done to eliminate the cracks
in the wall.
The combination was short-lived, however. Rhynda noticed it, and edging over to them, deliberately broke it up. She brought John over to the other side of the room, seated him in a chair, kissed the top of his head, ruffled his hair, and rejoined Richard and Berg.
Mrs. Hannahs, looking a trifle forlorn, entered into a desultory conversation with Mrs. Ballinger. Freda circulated aimlessly, and I suspected her of being a bit tight. She was not particularly noticed nor ever welcomed with loud shrieks, like Berg, and she hung around my neck quite a bit.
At half past twelve Mrs. Ballinger started to tell everybody about the noise we had heard in the attic. It took some time, and there was a great deal of repetition before everybody heard it, and Mrs. Ballinger went off to bed immediately afterwards, as though the fatigue had been too much for her.
The party broke up at about half past one, and they all started upstairs in a body. I was about to follow when I remembered that the room would have to be tidy for the morning, and I turned back. I had started getting things to rights when Richard put his head around the door.
"Party's over, Smithy," he observed. "Look behind you, and you'll find the crowd has gone."
I continued to sort glasses and empty ashtrays and said, without looking up, "I'm coming in just a minute."
He followed his head into the room, murmured, "Tch, tch. You women!" and began to help me.
Rhynda was back before I could say anything.
"What are you doing, Jonesy?" she called.
"Helping Smith with the housework," he said cheerfully.
She drew in a breath of impatience and said crossly, "Oh, for heaven's sake! She's paid to do it, and you're not!"
I colored painfully and fumbled an ashtray so that the butts spilled over onto the floor. I heard him say coolly, "Go to bed, Rhynda," and she flounced out with an angry exclamation.
The room seemed to emerge clean and tidy in no time, after that. Richard was very expert, and he told me, in explanation, that he had once had a bachelor apartment with no service.
It could not have been more than ten minutes more before we put out the lights and started up the stairs. I was conscious of a high wind blowing furiously outside. In the upper hall we came unexpectedly upon a little knot of people talking together. I don't now remember who they were, because at that moment there came distinctly a sound of something dragging across the attic floor above us.
Some woman gave a little scream, and then they were all out of their rooms, standing in the drafty hall and gaping at the ceiling while the noise dragged its way slowly and intermittently across the attic.
CHAPTER 4
Richard Jones broke the spell by saying cheerfully, "Let's investigate. Where is the door to the attic, Miss Smith?"
'This way," John said laconically. He led the way to the stairs, and Richard, Berg and Donald Tait followed in a body.
I looked around then to see who was left and found that everyone was there with the exception of Mrs. Ballinger, who was a heavy sleeper. I shivered a little and asked uncertainly, "When did you first hear it ?"
Freda, her hair in a pigtail, her face pallid, and her figure shapeless in a plaid woolen dressing gown, spoke in a high, shaking voice. "You know what it means, don't you? It means that a Ballinger will die by accident."
"Don't be silly," I said quickly. "How can you believe all that rubbish?"
"It's all very well for you," she whined and was interrupted by the return of the three men from the attic.
"Nothing up there but dust and junk," Berg said, as we waited breathlessly. "Guess it was just one of those unexplainable noises that you always hear in very old houses."
Well, it was true that you often heard queer noises in old places, and yet I could not feel quite satisfied about it. But I was dead tired, and I slept like a log until the alarm clock roused me at eight o'clock. I dressed quickly and carefully and crept out of my room with a smock and dust cap under my arm. I knew there was an appalling amount of housework to be done, but I did not want to be too obvious about it. The smock and dust cap were easily removable at any given moment, and the second layer was a smart jersey sports dress.
John was my only companion at breakfast. He said he was anxious to get at the leak in the roof. I thought of Freda, shivering and muttering about an accident to one of the Ballingers, and though I am not at all superstitious, I was conscious of a faint, unreasonable shadow of fear. I found myself trying to dissuade him.
"Why don't you leave it until some other time, John? It's—it's Christmas, you know, and it's cold. You could do it in the spring, when it's warmer."
He drained his coffee cup, lit a cigarette, and said easily, "Oh, it won't take long. I'd just as soon do that as anything else."
I sighed and suppressed an inclination to suggest that he make a temporary job from the inside. I knew he was looking forward to the work and would probably be quite happily occupied for the rest of the day. We had had no snow, and although it was cold, the roof was quite dry, and he was always careful. He would put in new shingles so methodically and so perfectly that it would be pure pleasure for him to look at them after they were done. John was like that.
We were preparing to leave the dining room when Mrs. Ballinger sailed in. I glanced at her guiltily and was thankful that she had not heard me trying to toss away a free repair job.
She was in a good mood and invited us to keep her company while she ate her breakfast. But when she heard that John was on his way to the roof, and I to do battle with vast expanses of dust and disorder, she let us go with a blessing. She loved to have people working busily for her.
I tackled the downstairs rooms first and did not even try to be thorough. I went through them like a breeze and worked my way up the stairs, along the upper hall, and to the bathroom, where I met a snag. The door was locked, and I could hear the sound of running water. I felt sure that it was Amy.
I was tired by that time, so I went to my room, stretched out on the bed, and lit a cigarette. A glance at my wristwatch showed me that it was half past twelve, and I groaned as I realized that none of the bedrooms were done yet.
I heard the faint, muffled thud of John's hammer, and the sound made me restless and uneasy. I looked at my watch again, and decided, with a little breath of relief, that if he were to have time to wash up before lunch, I'd have to call him now. I crushed out my cigarette and started for the attic.
I was sorry before I was halfway up the stairs that I had not gone outside to call him. The place was dim and vast and stretched away into shadowy corners. I advanced gingerly, thinking consciously of spiders and rats because I did not want to be silly enough to think of the hunched figure of an old man dragging a useless leg.
I went to the spot that seemed to be directly under John's hammer. The noise was much louder here, a regular banging that seemed to shake the whole roof. I waited for an interval and then called him and told him the time. He answered me and promised to come at once.
I got down the attic stairs again in about half the time it I had taken me to go up, and I flew along to the men's bedrooms, made their beds, and tidied up sketchily. I returned to the hall and was astounded to find the bathroom unoccupied. I made a dash for it and locked the door firmly behind me.
I washed up the bathroom and myself, in the order named, and had just finished when I heard Doris pounding the luncheon gong. As I came out, I bumped into Rhynda. I murmured an apology and started to pass her, but she caught my arm.
"Leigh, wait a minute. I'm sorry about what I said last night. I was a pig. We all should have helped you. Mabel has no right to expect you to do all that. It's ridiculous! It was a darned nice party you fixed for us, and I want you to know that I appreciate it."
I murmured something deprecatory, and she stepped hastily inside the bathroom door as some sort of movement was heard from Amy's room. She made a little face in that direction and added, "I don't know about Amy—you know how she is—but Freda and I have made up our room
s, so you won't have to bother about them."
"It's awfully nice of you," I said, and meant it.
Rhynda could be very sweet and considerate, if she were in the mood, but she was apt to be extremely nasty if she were sufficiently annoyed. I suppose that she must have been annoyed when she made that remark the previous night. But why? It did not interest me much, in any case, so I forgot about it and went down to lunch.
Only Mrs. Ballinger, John and I had any appetite for the meal, as the others had all had late breakfasts. It was just as well, too, because it was the remains of the chickens from the night before and there wasn't very much. I knew the bones were destined for soup at dinner and I wondered whether even Doris's ingenuity could produce much flavor from the two bleached-looking skeletons that were left.
Rosalie Hannahs disposed of the bits and pieces on her plate and then took a long breath and said brightly, "I declare, I wish I could stay in this lovely old house for a month. It certainly would take the wrinkles out of my soul."
She glanced at Mrs. Ballinger, whose return stare said more plainly than words, "Nothing doing."
"I'm staying for a week, anyway," Berg said chattily. "Until after New Year's. Dick will be able to make it, too. Men of leisure, you know."
Mrs. Ballinger gasped and said desperately, "But, Berg, what about your business? Surely they won't allow you the whole week?"
He balanced a spoon across the tip of his finger and said, "Oh yes. In fact, they insisted upon it."
"But you had your vacation last summer," his aunt said sharply.
"They think I need a longer one. In fact, they made rather a point of suggesting that I don't show up again until they hold open house for the alumni."
Rhynda said, "Oh, Berg!" in a tone of impatience, and John frowned and shook his head. Mrs. Ballinger got it after a moment of concentration.
"You've been discharged!"
"And they needn't think I don't know why, either," Berg said darkly, dropping the teaspoon and fishing for a cigarette. "I know all about it, and someday I'll face them with it."
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