by Farris, John
"He . . . he really isn't here. I mean it, he left. I was half asleep, but I heard him drive away."
Having admitted that much, Amy lost some of her shock and became cautious, realizing that she might be talking to one of the more Machiavellian Greenleaf boys. She said boldly, "Prove you're Michael Young." The silence that followed was so long she was afraid he was going to hang up. But eventually he spoke again, in a voice that was mischievous, but with an underlying hint of malice.
"When my mother was a little girl, she was playing with Auntie Helen. They called their game 'beauty shop.' My mother cut all of Auntie Helen's hair off with scissors. It was red hair when she cut it, but when the hair grew out it changed color, to dark brown. Auntie Helen knows. Ask her."
"All right. That's . . . a good story, if it's true, and I will ask Helen." Amy was already certain that he had told the truth; she was now certain that this was Michael Young. "But do you have any more proof?"
"I don't want to talk to you anymore," he said.
"Last night . . . something bad happened to Sheriff Washbrook. Do you know anything about it?"
"I know," Michael said, his voice sullen.
"Were you there?"
"He got what he had coming. Would you put Craig on?"
Amy said desperately, "Michael, where are you now? I'd like to come and see you."
"I told you, I don't want to talk to you!" Michael cried.
"Please listen to me. Craig isn't here. But if there's something you want to tell him, then tell me, and I'll find him right away."
Amy thought she had demanded too much, but then he said, in a voice that seemed to be fading, "Tell him . . . I wish he was dead."
"Oh, no. No, Michael. You don't mean that."
"I wish he was dead. I hate him."
"You can't hate everyone, Michael. You just can't! Craig was good to you, he took care of you. . . ." She caught her breath, and listened incredulously. He was weeping. "Michael," Amy continued, "I do want to help you. Please tell me where you are, and I'll come right away."
He sobbed again. "I'm—" he started to say, and then the connection was broken.
Amy sat holding the receiver with her knees almost against her breasts, and she was shivering. Presently she became aware of tears running down her cheeks. She dried them with the hem of the bed sheet and replaced the receiver. Despite the sun at the windows the room seemed cold to her. She slipped out of bed, took a heavy robe from her closet and put it on. A cigarette helped calm her. She went to the telephone again, began dialing Craig's number, changed her mind before she finished and bowed her head.
"Oh, God, what am I going to do?" Amy said brokenly, but she'd already half made up her mind, so she finished her cigarette and dressed hurriedly, in slacks and a ski sweater, and, forgetting about work, she went out into the chilly mist-bright morning to the ramshackle garage for her car.
Doremus asked her to go over the telephone conversation with Michael four times, until he was satisfied that he had it nearly word for word. When Helen left them alone in the kitchen to greet an early-rising antique hound Doremus asked bluntly, "Why did he call your house looking for Craig?" Amy reddened. "Oh well, what time did Craig leave, then?"
"I don't know," Amy mumbled. "It was light outside. He might have left as early as six-thirty, or as late as seven-thirty. I heard his car, but I didn't really wake up."
Helen came back and poured fresh coffee for the three of them. "How are we going to tell Craig?" she asked.
Doremus said, "I don't think he should be told."
"But Michael threatened to kill him!" Amy protested.
"No, he didn't. Not according to what you told me. Michael said, 'Tell him I wish he was dead.' That isn't a threat."
"As far as I'm concerned it is. And he also said he hated Craig."
"Supposing he does."
"Well, doesn't that mean he intends—"
Doremus shook his head. "I don't know why he called you; it wasn't what I expected. But what Michael had to say doesn't change my mind about him. I still believe he intends to murder Helen next."
Amy almost dropped her coffee cup and she gave Helen a startled look. Helen smiled wanly and explained while Doremus industriously buttered half a pastry and ate it.
"Michael's alive?" Amy said, staring at Doremus. "Well, now, if you'll pardon my saying so, that's incredible."
"'Ghosties and beasties and things that go bump in the night' you believe in, but a rational explanation defeats you."
"Rational, ha! Your 'explanation' simply explains away too much. What about the little boy everyone has seen? Peggy saw him twice, and poor Elsa. . . . Also, I talked to a boy on the telephone this morning, not a man."
"A man mimicking a ten-year-old boy," Doremus suggested.
"No, sir," Amy said stubbornly. "I work with boys that age, I listen to them eight or ten hours a day. I'm not about to be fooled by an impersonation. The voice I heard was genuine."
Helen nodded. "I agree with Amy. I don't know if we heard the same voice, but I'm convinced—"
"Anyone can be fooled over the telephone," Doremus objected.
"I asked him to prove he was Michael Young," Amy said, "and he did."
Doremus looked at her with renewed interest. "Something you forgot to tell me?"
"Yes. After I asked him to give me proof there was a long silence, and then he said, in a sort of smart-alecky way—you know how they are at that age—oh, God! he said that when Helen and her sister were little girls they liked to play 'beauty shop.' Beauty shop. And one time Alice took a pair of scissors and cut almost all of Helen's hair off. Her hair had been red, but when it grew back it had changed color, to dark brown."
An odd expression crossed Helen's face. "That's perfectly true. My parents made a terrible fuss about the hair-cutting although it didn't matter very much to me. Alice was delighted, I think—there was always this rivalry between us. But I doubt if I've ever told anyone about that incident."
"Alice must have told the boys," Amy said, and turned to Doremus. "Well, what do you think about that?"
Doremus grinned broadly. "I'll stick by my theories," he said, sipping from his cup. "Now, this is just about right, Helen. It took me thirty years to learn how to make coffee this way, but you're catching on fast."
"That's good," Helen said dryly, with a glance at Amy. "Doremus cooked breakfast for us this morning."
"Oh, won't Brenda be thrilled to have another cook in the house?"
Doremus grinned again, and unwrapped a small cigar.
"How long do you think you'll have to stay here?" Amy asked him.
"No telling."
"Couldn't a deputy watch the house, keep an eye on Helen and Peggy?"
"Not as well as I can," Doremus said.
"In the meantime Craig's life is in danger, and you don't seem to think a thing about it."
"Somehow I don't," Doremus admitted. "I could be mistaken though."
"You mean you just might admit your reckoning was off—over Craig's dead body you might admit it."
"Amy," Helen murmured.
"I can't keep still about it, I have to tell Craig about Michael." She faltered. "I could use some help."
"Why don't you ask him over tonight?" Doremus said to both women. "We can bring him up to date and at the least he ought to know what I'm doing here, what I'm after. He might have some valuable suggestions." Doremus yawned and stood up. "Believe I'll put in a call to Enoch Mills; I want to see if they've found anything of interest up at the state park." He sauntered away, cigar in hand, unshaven and looking thoroughly at home.
"I don't know what to think about that man," Amy said in a low voice. "As late as last night I was sure he had possibilities, but he's . . . well, he's on the boorish side, isn't he?"
"I don't know," Helen said vacantly.
"I thought you might be getting interested in him."
Helen smiled bleakly. "I may be turned upside down these days, but I haven't taken leave of my s
enses."
"Good. Because I've definitely decided he's not for you. Still . . ." Amy stirred a lump of sugar into her cooling coffee. "He's not thoughtful, and he's awfully, presumptuous in some ways, but there's something about him. Children certainly notice it right away. They can't be fooled."
"No, they always respond to kindness," Helen said.
Craig came that night and listened stonily as Amy repeated the details of the telephone call from Michael. To her dismay he said nothing but looked at her as if she were lying, or losing her mind. Then Doremus took over and explained that he thought Michael was still alive. Craig was immediately interested, and unargumentative. He asked a great many questions, becoming more excited by the minute, so much so that he got up and began pacing restlessly the length of the kitchen.
"That's it," be muttered. "That has to be what happened! Michael lived through the blizzard. I'll start checking our records tonight to see if there was a boy missing from the school about the time my brother disappeared. Have you asked Enoch Mills to go through the sheriff's files on missing persons?"
Doremus nodded. "Mills drew a blank, but that isn't necessarily significant. Missing children often go unreported."
"Maybe Michael did survive," Amy said sharply to Doremus, not caring what Craig would think, "but there's still a little boy involved in all this. I don't see how you can deny that, or ignore it!"
Amy had halfway made up her mind that Doremus was a bumbler, and she wasn't prepared for the look he gave her. His eyes had a wolfish glint in them. Amy was suddenly aware of a formidable strength in this man which she had previously overlooked. She was, despite herself, intrigued by her discovery.
"I haven't ignored anything," he said quietly, "but for now all I can do is wait. And hope I haven't made any serious mistakes in judgment."
About two o'clock in the morning Helen came wide awake in her bed, icily certain that her room had been entered.
The sky outside was veiled with clouds and heavily tarnished by the yellow moon; the shadow of a tree loomed mothlike on one wall of the room. She saw a gliding figure near the bed and almost cried out.
"Mother," Peggy said plaintively, "I don't feel very good. I've got a stomach ache."
Helen let her breath out a notch at a time and got up to help her daughter. She was wide awake by the time she returned to her room. The thought of strong hot coffee pushed her back into the hall.
Helen had thought it might be possible to sneak downstairs and invade the kitchen without being detected by Doremus; she was halfway down the stairs without having made a sound at all, as far as she knew, when the door of the office opened and Doremus stepped out, pistol in hand. The high-intensity lamp behind him was masked, revealing only the square battlefield of the chessboard he had been studying.
"Could you make enough for two?" he asked her.
When the coffee was ready Helen carried it to the office on a tray. He was hunched over the ornately manned chessboard again; the black Colt pistol was only inches away from his left hand. "Are you playing yourself ?" Helen asked.
"No. These are my men here. Black belongs to a man named Arshenko, a Russian philologist at the Moscow University. We've been playing for years, ever since I met him at the University of Chicago. Play by mail now. I've only beaten him once in four years, but I think . . . I've got him now. I should know by next spring." He looked up, accepting a cup of the steaming coffee. "I don't suppose you play?"
"My husband and I used to play once in a while, but I—"
"Great!" Doremus enthused, sweeping the pieces from the board. "Would you care for a game right now?"
"What about Mr. Arshenko?"
"He can wait; I still have three days to decide on my next move." He began setting up the game. Helen thought of her bed upstairs, and sighed inaudibly. "I suppose one game . . . I'm really not very expert at this."
She proved it by losing to him within twenty minutes. Doremus then went over every mistake she had made in painstaking detail. Eventually a yawn burst out of her. Doremus looked in amazement at the clock on the desk.
"You really did very well," he said. "I think you have an aptitude for this game. My wife never could learn. . . ." He reached for a cigar, discovered he had smoked the last one and sat back, staring disconsolately at the chessboard. Helen was putting the coffee cups back on the serving tray and she glanced at him, then felt moved to ask:
"When did your wife die, Doremus?"
"Three years ago."
"Her name was Marian."
"Yes. That's right." He was silent, but he looked up at Helen thoughtfully. "You've put up with this very well, my moving in and all. I know it hasn't been easy for you. But there's no other way. I have to be here."
"I understand."
"He might not come . . . but if he does, you wouldn't have a chance alone. Marian never had a chance. She put up a fight, but what chance did she have?" His expression was cold, brooding.
Helen felt shocked by his words, but she couldn't make herself ask Doremus what had happened to his wife. His tension lessened, however, and he began to speak again.
"I had to fly out to Des Moines to bring back a suspect in a labor shooting. Usually when I was to be away overnight, Marian drove to my sister's and stayed with them, but she was helping with a neighbor's wedding and she felt that she couldn't leave. She felt safe enough, and with reason: it was a fine spring week and the neighborhood was a good one, but is any neighborhood good enough?
"We landed at Meigs Field at four in the morning and it was six by the time I booked my prisoner, almost seven when I reached home. The milkman and I arrived about the same time, so I put the milk in the refrigerator and glanced at the front page of the Tribune before going upstairs.
There was no sign of forced entry—I would have noticed—the house was just as it should be. So I wasn't prepared at all, I just walked in on it." His eyes stung him; he rubbed them before continuing. "What struck me first was the quantity of blood on the walls; it still seemed fresh, I suppose. The room was devastated. I found Marian behind the bed, I mean jammed between the headboard and the wall. He'd finally broke the blade of his knife after stabbing her half a hundred times."
Helen, in the doorway, had turned a dull shade of gray, but her eyes were wide and filled with pity for him.
Doremus, hardly aware of her, went on inexorably. "The kid was in the bathroom; that was as far as he'd been able to travel. I don't know what she fought back with, fought the knife with, but I'd taught her the use of her hands and feet, I'd taught her a few alley things, and she had courage. He was a neighborhood kid we'd both tried to help. Probably she'd opened the door to him— that's the only explanation I have to this day. He was on the floor of the bathroom because he couldn't walk at all. Some of the blood on the walls was his. He had a scalp-rip and one empty eye socket, reamed out, no expression on his face, it was hard and stiff like a mask, about an eighth of an inch of coagulated blood covered most of his face but he was conscious and breathing and he could talk. He cursed me when I walked in. I didn't think about what I was doing, or what I wanted to do. I just took out my service revolver and shot him five or six times and walked out again."
Helen could find nothing adequate to say; she took the tray to the kitchen, washed the cups and saucers, put everything away and then returned. Doremus was methodically aligning pieces on the chessboard again. He looked up with a strained smile.
"I didn't mean to bother you with all that."
"When have you had the chance to talk about it?"
"I don't think I've talked about it at all. I didn't know I could."
"You've kept to yourself much too long," Helen said reprovingly. They looked at each other for several moments, cautiously, almost friends. Then Doremus smiled again and reached for his glasses. "I enjoyed the coffee. Maybe we'll have a chance for another game of chess."
"Yes, I'd like that. Doremus . . . I'm afraid I haven't been particularly gracious the last couple of days. I apologize
for that. I'm glad you're here, very glad. And not just because of Michael. I hope when this is over with, you'll feel like coming back for an evening now and then."
"Peg offered me half of her allowance if I'd stay on permanently," Doremus said innocently, and Helen, after turning red, laughed with him.
"She would. Good night, Doremus."
Chapter 11
Long past midnight he drove west through the sleeping village and up the long grade of White Church Street, past the widely spaced and darkened houses. There was no moon; he had waited far longer than he cared to wait for a moonless night, but now that the time had come he felt no sense of hurry, no spoiling overeagerness. He had gone over it in his mind again and again, timing himself from the one quick rehearsal he'd managed a week before. He knew he should be into the house, and out again, within twenty minutes. Out again, and on his way. A long way off by daybreak. That, of course, was essential.
When he was almost opposite the Connelly house, Harry steered off onto the hard shoulder on the far side of the road, parking beneath some high sycamore trees. While he studied the house he let the engine idle. The last two blocks he had driven only with parking lights. Now he turned off all lights and the engine but continued to sit for several minutes longer, observing, trying not to look directly at the street light that illuminated part of the front yard beyond the stone fence.
As soon as he became conscious of his heartbeat and felt his palms getting coldly wet, Harry knew that it was time to go. He took the items he needed from the seat beside him. The laundry sack with the drawstring top went up under his black sweater. The thick-bodied jackknife he slipped into his right-hand pants pocket. Switchblade knives were more convenient, but even with the good ones you couldn't trust the blade not to snap.
Harry eased open the door of his car and got out, was motionless for a few seconds, his quick breath visible like steam in the dark. Then he crossed the street without haste, hearing a dog start up somewhere; he scarcely paid attention.
Beyond the range of the street light he paused once again before stepping over the low wall that surrounded the Connelly property. Once in the yard he felt safer, and he went more quickly. The yard had been thoroughly raked the day before and a leaf crackled only once in a while under his shoes. His path was clear and familiar. He knew every contour of the big yard.
