The Black-Headed Pins

by Constance Little

  "Berg," I said, "didn't you put that scaffolding under the cellar stairs?"

  "Yes. Why?"

  "I went down there a little while ago, and it isn't there. Did you move it?"

  "No," he said tiredly, "I haven't touched it. Are you sure it's gone?"

  I nodded. "But that isn't all, Berg. I caught a glimpse of the rope, and it—it had been cut."

  "Cut?" he repeated, staring at me.

  "Yes, it was. I'm sure it was. I don't know what it means, but I wanted to look at it again."

  He passed his hand through his hair almost fretfully. "What time is it?" he asked abruptly.

  I glanced at my watch. "Ten o'clock," I said.

  He came out of the room and closed the door quietly behind him. "Aunt Mabel isn't likely to wake up again, is she?"

  I shook my head. "She's had a couple of sleeping tablets."

  'Then there's no need to—to stay there any more." His voice broke, and he cleared his throat. "We'd better go down and see what's happened to that scaffolding."

  We went to the cellar, discovered that the light was already on, and came upon Richard Jones, standing in the middle of the floor with the scaffolding in his hands.

  "Where did you find it?" I asked breathlessly.

  He looked up. "I'm not quite sure," he said slowly, "but I think it was in the excavation under that small porch at the side of the house."

  He was covered with dust and cobwebs, but he seemed to be quite unconscious of his appearance. He went on gravely, "This looks bad, Berg. As far as I can make out, this rope has been cut all around leaving a small piece in the middle, which broke through, of course, as soon as there was any strain on it. The outer edges were evidently glued together. There are still particles of glue on them. Someone seems to have taken a lot of trouble over it."

  He put the thing on the floor and mopped at his dusty face with his handkerchief.

  "In short, Berg, if I were you, I'd phone the police."

  Berg sat down on the cellar steps, as though the strength had suddenly gone out of his legs. "Oh, my God!" he said heavily. "My God! Who would dare—? Who'd want to? I can't believe it, Dick—I can't."

  I looked from one to the other and heard myself whisper, "You mean he was murdered?"

  Richard put his handkerchief away and brushed at his coat with his hand.

  "I may be mistaken," he said without conviction, "but it looks like it."

  He picked up the scaffolding again, and we went upstairs. Berg phoned Dr. O'Beirne but was told by a female voice that he was out on a difficult case. She promised to leave a message telling him to call us but did not think he would be in before the early hours of the morning. Richard took the scaffolding to his bedroom, and I went up and looked in on Mrs. Ballinger and Rhynda. They were both sleeping, so I did not disturb them. As I walked down the hall, I heard Amy and Donald Tait arguing loudly in her room.

  I opened the door, poked my head in, and asked them to be quiet, because I did not want Mrs. Ballinger or Rhynda to be awakened.

  Donald said, "O.K.," and winked at me over Amy's head, but Amy turned on me and declared she'd wake up anyone she chose. She added a command that I stay out of her room except when I was cleaning it up.

  I went off feeling well satisfied. I was used to her rudeness and no longer took much notice of it, but since she had suitably insulted me, I felt that there would no longer be any need to make her bed or tidy up her room.

  I went down to the living room, where Freda and Rosalie were conversing earnestly. They broke off to give me a couple of polite nods as I sank into a chair and then went back to it again. I gathered that they were discussing funerals—what was desirable and what was not at the best-conducted affairs. It appeared that Rosalie's husband had had the ultimate in send-offs. Before Rosalie had half finished describing it I realized that it had been well worth Mr. Hannahs' while to die.

  I relaxed in my chair and tried not to think of the disturbing things that were crowding my mind. My rest lasted for about five minutes, and then Amy and Donald walked in. Their argument had evidently ended amicably, for they were companionably arm in arm. They went to the fire, and Amy extended first one foot and then the other to the blaze and observed to no one in particular, "It's freezing in this damn house."

  She looked down at me and added imperiously, "Leigh, we're hungry. Will you please get us some supper?"

  "Not now," I said coldly, "nor at any other time whatsoever."

  She pouted and said quite mildly, "Oh well, you don't have to be so cranky about it. Come on, Don, we'll see what's in the icebox."

  Amy was always given to making the most ridiculous demands on people, but if she were firmly refused she usually took it as a matter of course. After she had left, I found that I was being applauded by Freda and Rosalie.

  "I'm certainly glad that you put her in her place," Freda said earnestly. "Dreadful woman. She—well, really—" She put her head closer to Rosalie's and made some revelations about Amy that had my hair standing on end. If she were to be believed, Amy could be nothing less than Public Enemy Number One.

  I did not take much notice of it all, because I knew that Freda violently disliked Amy and, in fact, had threatened her only yesterday. Rosalie did not seem much impressed by Freda's lurid tales, either. She shook her head at intervals and clicked her tongue, and when she could decently break in she started telling about a friend of hers who did bigger and worse things than Amy.

  I fell asleep in the midst of this recital and must have slept soundly for quite a long time. I woke up feeling chilly and stiff and very uncomfortable, to find that the fire was nearly out and I was alone in the room. I lay still for a moment and quite without my own volition, my mind observed chattily, "There is probably a murderer just outside the door of this room, and he is coming in to kill I me."

  I shivered, pulled myself together, and stood up. I saw that it was a quarter past twelve, and I began hastily to tidy up the room. The house was very quiet, and it began to get on my nerves. I started to hurry with my work until I was simply flying about the room. I had nearly finished when the heavy silence was broken by the sound of clear, slow footsteps. I stopped dead, with a dirty ashtray in each hand, and stared at the doorway. I was so frightened that I could feel my toes curl.

  However, it turned out to be nothing more alarming than Richard Jones walking carefully because he had a loaded tray in his hands. I nearly threw the ashtrays at him in reaction from my scare. He set the tray on a low table and put another log on the fire. He turned to me then, and relieved me of the two ashtrays.

  "Smithy," he said gloomily, "I'm worried about you, and I'm worried for your future husband. This passion for midnight housework seems to be growing on you, and no man will stand for being turned out of his bed in the early hours of the morning so that you may change the sheets. Sit down."

  I sat, and started to explain defensively, "But it must be done now, because tomorrow—"

  "My dear Smithy," he interrupted smoothly, "all addicts have perfect explanations for having just one more. Pour the coffee, will you? They've all gone to bed, and I prepared this bit of supper with my own hands for you and myself. Incidentally, our pal Amy left the kitchen in a muck that would be offensive to a pig of the better type."

  I started in hungrily on the supper and said of Amy, "She always does. But Doris will spit in her coffee tomorrow morning, so it all works out in the end."

  We had almost finished before I realized that we were eating Mrs. Ballinger's breakfast herring. I dropped my fork and stared at him in consternation.

  He raised his eyebrows in a query. "What is it? Did you forget to wax the floors?"

  "Richard," I said hollowly, "I'll be fired, and you'll be had up for stealing. This is Mrs. Ballinger's breakfast."

  "I don't think she'd care for it now," he said cheerfully. "And don't worry about her. I'll make her a pfannkuchen in the morning that will drive all thought of herring from her mind."

  "What's
a pfannkuchen?"

  "You wouldn't know," he said loftily. "Finish up your supper. It's late."

  He carried the tray back to the kitchen and then went down to the cellar to attend to the furnace while I finished putting the room in order.

  The place seemed to get black and frightening again when I was left alone in it. I became conscious of the wind howling outside, and I noticed that the heavy portieres hanging in the doorway were swaying slightly.

  We went upstairs, and I said good night to Richard in the hall and hurried into my room. I closed the door firmly and began to think about John immediately, although I did not want to. He had been so quiet and so nice, it seemed impossible that anybody could have hated him enough to want to kill him.

  I was a bit worried because we had disregarded Mrs. Ballinger's orders to have someone sit with the body, but it had seemed an impossible thing to ask of anyone. I began to wonder whether Berg had gone back there, and at last I opened my door and looked down the hall. It was quite dark—no light coming from under the door of the sewing room—so I decided that Berg had gone to bed, since it was unlikely that he would be sitting there in the dark. I locked my door and got into bed myself.

  I was wide awake at once. I turned restlessly for some time and blamed it on the two cups of coffee and the naps I had had. And then the shutter began to bang. I knew it was the one on the sewing-room window because it had worked loose once before. I told myself fiercely that I was not going down the dark hall and into that death room to fix it, and I lay for some time, clinging to this determination and waiting nervously for each successive bang.

  I was not able to stand it for long. It seemed to me that the crashes grew louder each time, and that they must soon wake the entire household. I gritted my teeth, got out of bed and into a dressing gown and slippers, and went out into the hall.

  I felt an instant surge of relief. There was a thin stream of light coming from under the sewing-room door now, and I was sure that one of the men had heard the noise and had gone to fix it. I felt that my knowledge of the intricacies of that shutter might be useful, so I went confidently down the hall. I had my hand on the knob of the door when Mrs. Ballinger's story of how the Ballinger corpses walked if they were left alone flashed into my mind.

  I squared my shoulders against the feeling of horror that thrilled over me and resolutely opened the door.

  The room was well-lighted and empty—except for John. And he was sitting on a chair, facing me, with his eyes wide open and his mouth stretched in an insane grin.

  CHAPTER 7

  I backed away slowly from the door, and the dead eyes seemed to follow me. And then I started to scream. I believe I screamed steadily until I became conscious of two indistinct figures, one on each side of me. I pointed to the sewing-room door with a shaking finger, and one of them went in. The other held me up while I sobbed on his chest.

  The man at the door came out and shut it, and then someone put the hall light on. I could hear them come out of their rooms and gather around, talking excitedly. I still clung, trembling, to whoever was supporting me, but I had come out of my dazed state sufficiently to notice that the chest on which I had been dropping tears was handsomely garbed in a dressing gown of heavy, royal blue silk.

  I was presently yanked away from this haven by Berg, who took over the job of holding me up. I discovered then that the royal blue enveloped Donald Tait and that Amy was staring at me with evil in her eyes.

  They were all there except Doris, who seemed able to sleep through anything. Mrs. Ballinger kept demanding to see John and wanted to know who had been sitting with him, and why I had screamed.

  Berg said to me, "Tell us what happened," and three times I opened my mouth to explain, but they were all talking at once and I could not make myself heard.

  Mrs. Ballinger got a bit hysterical at last and shouted out that she was going to see for herself. She made a determined effort to enter the sewing room and was as firmly restrained by Richard Jones, who thereupon loudly demanded silence. Rather surprisingly, he got it. They all turned and looked at him, and he said briefly, "What happened is simply this. Leigh went into the room for something and found John siting on a chair instead of being on the bed."

  I nodded and found, to my annoyance, that I was hard put to it to keep from breaking into tears again.

  "What did she go in for?" Amy asked.

  I explained about the shutter and added rather resentfully, "It was banging frightfully."

  Freda backed me up. "I heard it myself," she said, "only I didn't know where it was coming from."

  Mrs. Ballinger suddenly caught on to the fact that John had been left alone against her express order and became hysterical again. Freda and I took her in hand, while Richard and Berg went to the telephone to try and get in touch with Dr. O'Beirne. We got Mrs. Ballinger to bed and induced her to take another sleeping tablet, and after a while she became quiet and went to sleep. We left her and went off to find the rest of them congregated in Rhynda's room. Freda sat down in a straight chair and folded her hands, and I found a seat on a low footstool.

  Berg was speaking. He said, "We ought to try and find out about this—do a little investigating, here and now. Dr. O'Beirne will be here sometime tonight, and we ought to get to the bottom of it before he comes. It might save a lot of unpleasantness."

  "We ought to send for the police," I said.

  My remark dropped into a pool of silence, and I received one or two glances of faint hostility. After a moment, Rhynda said coldly, "I don't think that's at all necessary. Dr. O'Beirne is the coroner, and if we notify him that should be enough."

  Berg looked around at us all and made an earnest appeal. "If any of you did it for a joke, please say so. We won't take it badly. But, I—we must know. If you will only admit it, we'll put him back on the bed and say no more about it."

  No one answered this plea, but after a moment of silence Freda said in a low, strained voice, "It's no use. Nobody moved him. You know this house, and a Ballinger—somebody should have watched him."

  "That's nonsense!" Rhynda said sharply. Her face was white and drawn, and she picked constantly and aimlessly at the bedclothes. "It's stupid to talk like that, Freda. Of course somebody moved John, and I add my plea to Berg's—please tell us about it. We'll put John back and simply forget it."

  "Why not put him back, anyway?" said Amy

  I expected them all to jump on her, but instead there was a faintly embarrassed silence.

  "Let's put it to a vote," Rosalie suggested tentatively.

  There was another uneasy silence, and then Richard Jones stood up abruptly. "Sorry if I stand alone on this, but I'm afraid there's nothing doing. If you put him back, I'll tell O'Beirne about it."

  "He's right," Berg said flatly. "It wouldn't be any use. It's stupid."

  "I think you'd all better go back to bed," Richard suggested. "Berg and I will attend to things."

  Nobody wanted to go much, but we had nothing else to do so we wandered off. Freda came into my room through the connecting door that led to hers. She said she was too frightened to stay in her own room, and she huddled into a small, armless rocking chair and gazed drearily out of the little bay window at the foot of my bed.

  I stretched out on the bed, but I could not sleep. I kept wondering if John had been alive after all and had got himself up. I closed my eyes but could not forget his bloodstained face, and after a while I began to have spasms of trembling that I could not control.

  From the foot of the bed Freda said suddenly, "Don't! Stop shuddering like that. I can't stand it!"

  She started to cry, and I pulled myself out of bed and went and patted her a bit and tried to comfort her. I knew she had been very fond of John. There was no doubt on that score.

  Her gasping sobs eased off presently, and she told me to go back to bed. I climbed in, and after a short silence, she said unexpectedly, "Leigh, I know who moved John. But I can't think why. I've tried to puzzle it out until my head is spinni
ng with it—and there simply isn't any answer."

  Her voice rose until she was almost shouting, and I said sharply, "Be quiet! You're making too much noise!"

  She dropped her head against the back of the rocker and was silent. I hated to stir her up again, but I felt that I could not let the thing go by. It was important to us all to know who had moved John, and I frankly admitted to myself my own personal curiosity. I gave her a minute or two, and then I asked her, quietly, who had done it and how she knew about it. "I saw," she replied simply.

  I sat up in bed, in my eagerness. "Then, Freda, you must tell us. You must. If you won't talk to anyone else, tell Dr. O'Beirne. It's so desperately important."

  "No, I won't," she said flatly. "Not until I'm good and ready, anyway."

  I dropped back on my pillow again and closed my eyes. I knew Freda. If she had made up her mind not to tell, then nothing on earth could make her. I wondered what Amy had done to anger her and decided to risk a question about it. I was too tired to think up any diplomatic approach, so asked bluntly, "What has Amy done to you, Freda?"

  I heard the rocker creak, as though she had made a sudden movement, and she said, in a strained unnatural voice, "Why, what do you mean?"

  I tried to be casual. "Oh, I know there's something. I wondered what it could be."

  "How did you know?" she asked suspiciously.

  "I could see it."

  She began to rock in an agitated fashion. After a moment she said with subdued violence, "Well, you're right. She has done something, and it's so abominable that this time at least she's going to be paid out for it." She was quite vicious about it, and I decided, without sorrow, that Amy was due for retaliation in some distinctly unpleasant form.

  "But what was it she did to you?" I asked curiously.

  I believe she was going to tell me. She stopped rocking and cleared her throat, and just at that minute we heard the voices of Richard, Berg, and Dr. O'Beirne as they mounted the stairs.