The Case of the Weird Sisters

by Charlotte Armstrong

  "I dunno."

  Duff stood with his tall head lost among the pipes. He seemed to be musing. In a little while he began to muse aloud.

  "Yes, it's a disadvantage when the murder hasn't succeeded. One can't be as bossy as one would like. Nevertheless, it's the same problem. Just the same. Somewhere there must be a motive or a wish. There have been methods, even though they haven't worked. Times and opportunities and all that. Here, also, we have three women very peculiarly limited, each in her separate way. I would like very much to know which of them has tried murder, and how many of them—outside of making it a little easier to keep your boss alive, once we know. These three sisters, half-sisters of his, I understand. They aren't in triplicate? They're not all alike?"

  "No," said Fred, "but there's not much choice."

  "Still, they're different."

  "Like different brands of poison," Fred said.

  "What's the motive?"

  "His money."

  "And yet they're different," Duff said. "Do they all fit that motive?"

  "In different ways."

  "Is that so, indeed?" EhifTs voice was warm and curious. "Do you know them well?"

  "I don't know them very well at all," said Fred, "but it don't take long to learn not to love 'em."

  "I shall have to learn," said Duff. "I think I'll stop over in the kitchen."

  "Alice and I ... I mean, Miss Brennan and I figured out a few things. We . . ."

  "We'll talk about them," Duff promised. "But let me linger by the kitchen door now, before they wake.''

  13

  MacDougal Duff set himself to charm Josephine. He begged her hmnbly for a cup of coffee and would permit no fuss. He would drink it here, he said. Before long it became apparent that Mr. Duff was very much interested in the problems of a general houseworker from a new and fascinating point of view. Chat got around to the types of mistresses one drew. It seemed that Duff, in a broad, almost scientific kind of way, had made a study. People were fascinating, anyway. Aiid a houseworker's job was so bound up in himian relations. So much life to be lived on the job. Her boss made more difference to her, her boss's foibles, her boss's character. Josephine, drinking all this in, expanded when she found Duff ready to hang on her words. Of course, her experience was great, he implied. She, Josephine, must know a great deal about women. A very great deal.

  Well, Josephine had been on this job for fourteen years, except for one year when she'd gone off to Mrs. Dr. Follett. But she'd come back after one year of rebellion. That was all the jobs she'd had. Still, insisted Duff, with three mistresses at once, as it were, that made four women in all, each a type. Josephine must have observed them well.

  Josephine bloomed under this mind-broadening discussion. Her latent self-pity lent emotional force to her observations. She didn't quite complain, but she began to talk.

  Mrs. Eh". Follett, now, she was the kind who was all the time reading up about some fancy things to cook in the Ladies' Home Journal, and she'd come out in the kitchen and mess around herself, and they never turned out good, never, just a lot of waste, mostly butter and sugar. Honest, it was a crime. And decorating the table. Mr. Duff wouldn't believe the crazy things she'd do. Have to stand

  up a banana in the hole of a piece of pineapple and stick a red cherry on top so it'd look like a candle! Dumb things like that. As if it was going to taste like anything but a banana and a piece of pineapple. Besides, they had to knock the banana down to eat it, didn't they?

  Duff sympathized. He understood the scorn of the professional for the enthusiastic amateur.

  Of course, here it wasn't any easy job, she told him. Duff surmised shrewdly that there was prestige attached to being the Whitlock drudge, that somewhere in the village Josephine was thought of as one who moved among mysterious luxuries. Because, as became plain, Josephine was a drudge.

  "They don't bother me wanting to do no cooking," said Josephine. "None of 'em ever wanted to go so far as to boil an egg, as far as I know."

  How different people were from each other, murmured Duff, keeping the high impersonal plane.

  That was right. Now, you take Miss Gertrude. She was the kind who hadda have everything just so. Oh, yes, even if she was blind, she could feel dust with her fingers. Kinda spooky, she was. Well, she wanted everything just so, you know, just so; but she never thought about the time you had to do it or how you was going to get it done, either. She didn't care, just so it was done. And done right.

  Strict, suggested Duff. There were women like diat Fussy?

  Well, no, she wasn't so awful strict. She'd tell you, that's all, and you'd have to try, but it was just that she . . . Well, now, for instance, she'd always think about how it was going to look if somebody came. You know, everything hadda always be ready for company. She didn't have so much company, for the land's sakes. But that's how she was. Always sitting so stiff and straight, just waiting like, for somebody to happen to come in and find her sitting nice and straight.

  "A proud woman," said Duff. "Ah, yes."

  A proud woman was right. Mr. Duff had got it exactly. She was the one that knew she was a Whitlock, she was. And a Whitlock hadda keep up to snuff. Hard on a girl, let JosephiQe tell you. Because the way she kept up to snuff was giving orders. It was funny how Miss Gertrude

  could take so much credit for wanting things just so when she wasn't ever the one who went to work and put them just so. Not her! Too proud to make her own bed, though she probably could if she wanted to. She could do a lot of things, blind though she was. And awful proud of that, too. Josephine looked out the side of her eye at Duff and added quickly, "Poor lady."

  Well, it was better than feeling sorry for herself, Duff suggested, and Josephine agreed glumly.

  With Miss Isabel handicapped, too, Duff went on, all the little chores must fall to Josephine. How hard that must be.

  "Talkiug about fussy," said Josephine, "she's the one is always at me for something. She tries to help out, though. Land, she's always flying at some job I ain't had time to get around to, but I always have to do it all over, time I get there." Josephine wrung her dishrag out slowly. "You know, Mr. Dufi, .there's two ways of doing your work. You can get it done real fast and sit down and rest and have a little time to yourself. I used to do that with Mrs. Dr. Follett. But Miss Isabel can't stand it to see me sitting stiU. She'll think of something. Something gets to worrying her. So I kinda slow up."

  "Of course," said Duff. "Naturally."

  "Well, if I was to go rushing around here, I'd be doing twice as much," said Josephine, "and there's too much as it is. Now she can figure out ways . . . She don't like to spend money, Miss Isabel don't, so she'll figure I can do it the hard way and save a coupla pennies. Well, I go slow, that's all. There's just so many hours. You can't blame me."

  "She wants your hours full," said Duff.

  "She sure don't want to waste any of my time," cracked Josephine, and Duff risked a laugh.

  Josephine took it properly. They were friends.

  "It seems to me you do pretty well to keep this house going at all," said Duff. "How about Miss Maud? Is she fussy, too?"

  "Oh, Miss Maud! If she was the only one, it'd be a cinch. She's easy-going. A little dust don't bother her."

  "If it doesn't bother her, I don't suppose she helps with the dusting, does she?"

  "Her?" Josephine laughed. "She's too lazy."

  "Lazy," said Duff thoughtfully. "Is she, really'?" Hesaw a qualm growing on Josephine's face and made a quick retreat to the field of psychological observation. "Tell me, would a girl rather work for a lazy mistress or for a fairly strict one?"

  "Well, I'll tell you. In a way . . ." Josephine pondered. "I dont know," she confessed. "The thing is, if she's lazy and sloppy, you get so's you can't stand it yourself. "

  "I see. You feel the responsibility," Duff said. Whereas, if you're told your duties strictly, you know where you are."

  "Yeah," said Josephine gratefully, "that's what I mean. I don t know's I'd
like it, working for Miss Maud alone. Even If she is lazy—say, she'd live in a pigsty—she wants plenty of service for herself, just the same. You know what she'll do? She'll yell for me when she's lying on her bed to come upstairs and hand her a pillow that's across the room. That's what she'll do."

  "Tell me," said Duff. "suppose she yelled and no one came? Would she get it herself then?"

  "I'll never know," Josephine said bitterly. "Boy, when she yells, she yells."

  She fell into a moody silence. Duff said, "There's a handyman, isn't there? He does the heavy work?"

  "Oh, sure." Josephine sloshed water lackadaisically in the sink.

  "Where does he sleep?"

  Josephine raised startled eyes. "In the barn," she said, her voice losing body. She turned her back then.

  "I was just wondering if he came home drunk last night and went down and did things to the furnace."

  "Nope," said Josephine. "My room's off the kitchen. The back door makes a racket if it's opened. I'd have heard him. Besides, he don't get drunk so much."

  Josephine was being less communicative, even though she said words.

  "You were up last night?" Duff asked.

  "I never heard anything until Fred went pounding down the cellar stairs. That woke me. Then I got up." Josephine was nearly brief.

  Duff rose. "I like to chat," he said, "and thanks for the coffee."

  "You're welcome," said Josephine. Her eyes were uneasy. They fixed on Duffs with some appeal. She fingered the tiny gold cross that hiing around her neck. "I been here fourteen years," she said huskily, "and I dunno where to go to get another job."

  Was it apology? It seemed to be. For what? For being a doormat? For being a drudge?

  Duff waited quiedy, sending her his steady friendliness.

  "Some things ain't right," Josephine said, and her eyes fell and her big pink hand clenched and covered the cross.

  Duff saw, then, that the handyman was coming along the back of the house, outside. He would get no more from Josephine. He stepped quickly to the back door, relying on her essential meekness to watch him go without requiring an explanation.

  When Mr. Johnson found Duff waiting on the narrow stoop, he stopped with one foot in a broken shoe resting on the bottom step and looked up. His unfathomable black eyes were as rudely without self-consciousness, as insulting in their complete lack of personal curiosity, as the child's had been on the train. Duff sent back his own synthetic innocence.

  "You want to say something?" inquired Mr. Johnson without a flicker.

  "About the furnace here," Duff purred. "Do you remember what time you banked the fure last night?"

  "Ten o'clock, close to."

  "It was all right then, was it?"

  "Yeah." Mr. Johnson spat into the dust, but his eyes came back as boldly as ever.

  Duff tried a quick carelessness. "Who closed all those dampers afterward?"

  No surprise or pretense of surprise showed on the dark face. The big shoiilders denied knowledge. Duff smiled his most enigmatical smile, but the black eyes continued to take him for a total enigma in which they were not much interested.

  "I wonder, did you see the lamp fall a little earlier in the evening?" Duff said.

  "Naw."

  ''You were out of the house, perhaps?"

  "Sure."

  ''Downtown?"

  "Naw."

  "Where, then?"

  "In the bam."

  "Alone?"

  ''Sure."

  "See the accident?" Duff surrendered to the staccato and tried sharpness.

  "What accident?"

  "To the car."

  "Naw."

  "Where were you then?"

  "In the bam."

  "Alone?"

  "Sure."

  "What were you doing?"

  "Nothing."

  "Alone?" Duff tried it softly.

  Mr. Johnson spat.

  Duff said a few words in a strange tongue. The black eyes betrayed no light, although they were not uncomprehending.

  "What about it?" said Mr. Johnson.

  MacDougal Duff said, ''Thank you. I won't keep you," in a tinny voice and stood aside to let him by.

  Mr. Johnson went by.

  Duff stood on the back stoop for a few minutes, gnawing on his own thumbnail. After a while he took his thumb out of his mouth and looked at it, wiped it twice across his other sleeve, put his hands in his pockets, and commanded himself to stroll aroimd the house toward the front door.

  One who knew Duff well would have remarked that he seemed upset.

  14

  Alice woke up with her cheek on the bare mattress, her tweed coat scratchy under her chin, sat up under the mass of muddled bedclothes, and looked at her watch. Ten o'clock, Saturday. And the real significance of that was that Art Killeen must have been here in this house for nearly two hours.

  She began to dress in a hurry, with a guilty sense of being late to a rendezvous. Her eyes, she saw in the glass, were puffy with weariness and her hair was wild. In her skirt and blouse, she snatched a towel and her make-up I box and fled through the deserted hall to the bathroom. |

  When she came out, she was on the surface a self-possessed and fairly well-groomed young woman who might have taken the wild goings-on of the middle of the night in her stride. She'd made herself seem refreshed by sheer skill, and she had beaten down her excitement. She was ready when Innes's door opened and Art Killeen came out.

  Ready or not, her heart jimiped, and she choked it back when she saw with a litde shock how fair he was, how white his skin, appreciated his well-washed look and the clean line of his nose and chin.

  "Good morning!" he said with the surprised pleasure that was so familiar.

  "Hello, Art," said Alice, and her own voice was tired.

  He was tall, and she had to look up. He was smiling radiantly. He said in a hushed voice, "Innes has been telling me. My dear, I think it's swell! Just swell!"

  Alice felt sick. She knew the word "swell" in his vocabulary. She knew his convention of wholehearted rejoicing in another's success. The code, the gentleman's law. But this radiance turned her a little sick.

  "Thanks, Art," she said wearily. She knew weariness didn't attract him. How was it that she sounded so tired and was so tired of the whole idea of marrying Innes? If this was triumph, if this was revenge, it had no taste to it. It was flat. The excitement she'd been struggling to conceal died of itself. It disappeared and left her weary.

  He had a brief case imder his arm, and he patted it.

  "Where can I go to do a little work?" he asked, still smiling.

  "I don't know," she said.

  "You know what it is I have to do, don't you?" His voice was colorless, deliberately, but she knew there was secret congratulation behind it.

  "Yes," she said.

  "He's very fond of you, Alice."

  His confidential air suddenly infuriated her. She put her hand on Innes's doorknob. "I've got to say good morning," she said over her shoulder. "Somebody will find you a corner if you go downstairs."

  Her coolness didn't dim the radiance of his smile.

  "Aw, please, you show me," he coaxed. "Whitlock's busy talking to Duff."

  "Duff!"

  "Professor MacDougal Duff, none other," said Art Killeen. "Oh, yes, he's here. Didn't you know?"

  Alice said briskly, "I'm sorry. Art, but I've got to talk to Mr. Duff.''

  "Of course." He was quick to agree, m that charming way he had of deferring and resigning his claim on one's attention. "But I'll see you later?"

  Alice tapped on the door. "Oh, yes," she said, more wistfully than she had intended.

  Art Killeen was the kind of man who, when a girl said don't,' didn't. That's why they don't often say don't, thought Alice, with a shock, as if she saw through another of life's veils.

  It was MacDougal Duff himself, all right, rising to say good moming, and his lean hand was warm and strong.

  "Oh, Mr. Duff, you did come back! I'm so g
lad. Do vou know Innes?"

  "I do now," said Duff.

  Innes, sitting up in bed, his face flushed with a little new color, said, "How are you, dear? You got some sleep, didn t you?"

  "How are you, Innes?"

  "Better," he said, "better. I've been talking to this friend of yours. As a matter of fact, I've been doing all the talking."

  Duff smiled. "My method," he claimed. "I believe there was something you wanted to say to me. Miss Brennan when we were so rudely separated yesterday by the train's departure."

  "Oh," said Alice, "it was all this." She sat down, looking up. "I mean all the things that have happened to Lines. We were worried. Even then, we couldn't . . . Have you seen Fred? Has Innes told you about last night? Oh, what do you think?"

  "My dear Alice, I've hired the man," said Innes complacently. "He's going to find out what to think and tell all the rest of us."

  "I'm so glad,'' said Alice. "It's just what I wanted." She wondered how on earth Duff had got around Innes so quickly. But she realized that Duff's perfect and selfless willingness to concern himself with Innes's troubles and devote all his talents to understanding them was Duff's convincing credential. "But how do you happen to be back here?" she asked.

  "I'm studying the American Indian this spring," said Duff, "just for fun. Ogaunee is my headquarters at the moment. I'm Mrs. Innes's boarder, you know."

  "Oh, are you?"

  "Lucky, isn't it?" said Innes, as if he, himself, had just been very clever.

  "Yes, it's lucky," said Alice. "Also, it's terribly good of you to drop your own work and help us instead."

  "Two birds with one stone," said Duff, a trifle grimly. "Mr. Johnson, the handyman, is a full-blooded Oneida."

  "I don't," said Alice in another moment, "understand Mr. Johnson."

  "Of course he's an Indian," protested Innes. "Been here ever since I can remember. Tends the furnace, washes the windows, works in the yard. He used to keep the horses when we had them. He's always been Mr. Johnson, I don't know why. Suppose he always will be. He belongs out in the bam. I suppose my sisters pay him wages. He's an Indian, all right."

  Duff said, "What's the matter, Miss Brennan?"

  "I couldn't place him. I thought he was so foreign. He scared me."