The Black Eye

by Constance Little

  It was Bartholomew Egbert.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  I FELT KEN'S HAND on my arm, and he pulled me quickly to my feet. We slipped unobtrusively through the crowd and were actually only a few feet away from Egbert when we sped through the door and out to the platform, but he had his back turned and was looking down at the far end of the waiting room.

  We stood close together behind a post in the broiling sun, and when I protested Ken said, "He'll be along to see if we're taking this train—and I don't want him to catch us."

  "What are we going to say when he finally tracks us down?"

  "We can tell him we were off visiting some aunts," Ken said, "and we'll leave the magazine where he'll be sure to find it."

  "That's fine," I agreed, "except for two things. First, I must have lost the magazine somewhere, as I don't seem to have it with me—"

  "Of all the irresponsible, cloth-headed idiots!" Ken exploded. "Why can't you hold on to your things?"

  "I'll make up another magazine for Egbert that'll be just as good," I soothed him. "Anyway, secondly, Egbert will want the names and addresses of our Binghamton aunts, and what are you going to do about that?"

  But he had ceased to listen to me and was muttering, "You certainly couldn't tell that Emerson had a false eye just by looking at him."

  "No," I said thoughtfully, "but they make a very expert job of things like that these days—and he kept it such a secret."

  I remembered the glassy-looking object that we had picked up in the drawer, and decided that it was no wonder John had got another, for that one could never have looked as natural as whatever he was wearing. And then, suddenly, I had a doubt about John's false black eye—and almost immediately Ken put it into words.

  "I don't believe it," he said flatly. "That eye we picked up could never look like the one he's wearing for the simple reason that he never did wear that piece of glass."

  "Of course," I breathed excitedly. "But why—why would he pretend he'd had two eyes?"

  "Money. Betty had the money, and she was getting a bit tired of him, but she could hardly refuse him an eye. When he found out how much an eye cost he thought it was good enough to do over again, so he started to wink and to complain that the eye didn't fit him and was the wrong color anyway. She gave him money for a new one, and he had that bit of glass made up to show her—and somehow it got into the drawer of Mary's bed."

  "Yes, somehow—and he made a pretty lame excuse—"

  The train came in, and we made a dash for it. We saw Egbert, but he did not appear to see us, and inside the coach we slid low in our seat and breathed lightly until the train was well out of the station again.

  "Although I don't know why it matters," I said reasonably, once the danger was past, "because Egbert can easily prove that we were in Binghamton. He has only to glance over the hotel register."

  Ken settled himself comfortably. "I don't want him to catch us just yet. I want to enjoy this interlude as long as it lasts. When we get back we can clear away the debris."

  We gazed at the passing scene for a while, but I couldn't get my mind away from John, and I presently suggested, "That might be the motive Egbert's looking for. John was found out, and Betty told Homer and threatened a divorce—everything brought out into the open, and John faced the loss of his wife and daughter—and the money, too—so he killed Homer and Betty in a rage."

  "Nah," Ken said sleepily. "John would figure that he could always hold Betty if he turned on all the charm. He has plenty of it."

  Well, that was true, of course, and I couldn't argue against it. But after all, somebody had killed them, and it seemed to me that mine was the best motive yet.

  "I wonder why Betty called that mummy the Black Eye?" I murmured half to myself.

  "Simple," Ken said, looking superior. "I knew Betty, you see—I know what she was like. She gave the thing that name because John's eye had cost so much that she couldn't afford to buy it."

  I hadn't thought of that, and I didn't want to be impressed by it because Ken's tone was so smug, but I couldn't think of anything to refute it.

  "Homer had the money to buy it, I suppose," said Ken, "but he probably had to ask Mary first if he could."

  "I don't think Mary would have minded. Anything antique is usually all right with her."

  We both laughed a little, but Ken shook his head. "Nope, you're wrong. Mary would spend a large sum on a chair that couldn't safely be sat on. but I'm sure she'd object to Homer going around spending money on foolishness."

  We laughed again, and presently I put our single thought into words.

  "But she would hardly murder Betty and Homer because they were proposing to buy a mummy. Besides, Homer wouldn't have bought it without her consent. He'd just have said, 'No, dear, just as you say.' "

  "You're right in a general way," Ken conceded, "but those mild men stand up to their wives every ten years or so and get quite stubborn. I knew a man once—"

  "Spare me," I murmured. "I think I'll take a nap."

  "Go ahead," Ken agreed amiably. "Be a good time for a little sleep while I'm telling this story. It's not very interesting, and you won't miss much."

  As a matter of fact I did go to sleep, although I hadn't really intended to, and I slept so soundly that Ken had to nudge me awake when it was time to change trains.

  We arrived back at Mary's apartment in the late afternoon and went in through the back entrance. Ken had a key, and as we came into the hall the place seemed quiet, although we could hear someone moving around in the kitchen. We didn't bother to investigate—we had a polite scuffle as to who should get into the bathroom first. I won, and I took a long cool shower, and then went to my room for a complete change of clothes. I had to put the yellow ribbon back on because of the bandage, and I wondered despairingly whether I'd have to wear the thing until the end of Ken's furlough.

  I went on out to the kitchen, prepared for a series of shrieks from Lucy as to where we had been, but she was not there. Ken was lounging against the table, and Mary stood at the stove cooking something.

  It was apparent that Mary had not yet received the postcard about our supposed elopement, and Ken was trying to do a little reasonable explaining.

  "We really didn't think you'd mind. It was just one of those things—spur of the moment—and we—er—needed a break from all this trouble."

  "I need one myself," Mary said in an injured voice, "far more than you did, I'm sure. And it looked so bad, you know—not even telephoning—and of course Lucy will spread it far and wide, and put the worst interpretation on it."

  "We should have telephoned." Ken agreed easily, "but you know how it is. I was tired and ready to turn in when I got back to the hotel, and I suppose Gene felt the same, way."

  "Well, yes, but New York isn't so far away, and Eugenia could have phoned from her apartment."

  "Quite right. She should have, and I should have. We're sorry. Mary."

  He sounded more impatient than sorry, and I realized that he had made up some tale about our jaunt. I wondered if he intended to tell it—whatever it was—to Egbert, and I wanted to warn him that that would be silly.

  "Where's Lucy?" Ken asked.

  Mary broke some eggs into a bowl and avoided looking at either of us. "She's gone home."

  Ken fastened his attention on her and asked, "Why did she go?" Mary began to beat the eggs briskly and made no reply. "Did you quarrel with her?"

  Mary frowned, dumped her mixture into a pot, and then turned to face us with sudden color in her cheeks.

  "There was no quarrel. Lucy left in a hurry when she realized that I knew she had killed my husband."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  KEN HAD BEEN TOYING with a knife that lay on the table, and it fell with a sudden sharp clatter to the floor.

  Mary said, "Tch," and stooped and picked it up.

  "I don't think you ought to make an accusation like that unless you're absolutely sure," I told her soberly.

  "I am sur
e," she said calmly, "and I'll tell you why. Lucy owed Homer a large sum of money. She had expected, when she borrowed it, to pay it back in six months—or that's what she said—and that was four years ago. She didn't know that I knew anything about it, but of course I did—I told Homer to lend it to her at the time. Anyway, Homer was pressing her for it just lately, although I don't know why, and Lucy couldn't pay. I know her circumstances, and I told Homer that she didn't have it, but he wouldn't listen to me—said he needed the money. Now Lucy's been getting along all right financially, but for her to try to raise a sum like that would be disastrous. She'd have to sell everything she owns, and then it wouldn't be enough. So she killed him, and I suppose Betty knew about it and saw her do it, and Betty had to be killed too. You see, it was as simple as that. If Homer were dead he wouldn't dun her any more, and if his body were never found no one would know that he had been murdered."

  "You're taking entirely too much for granted," Ken muttered. "Why would she wrap them up like that?"

  Mary had put her eggs into a pot and was scrambling them, and I saw that she had some coffee bubbling cheerfully in a silex. She glanced at the coffee and turned the gas out under it before she replied, "It was to preserve them, of course. Homer often talked about mummies and such things, and Lucy always showed interest."

  "But why preserve them?"

  "Don't you see, she didn't want them to be discovered—ever. She knew I was sending that bed up to the cottage as soon as I could get a van, and if they were nailed into the drawer she could take her time about disposing of them when she came up to visit—so she gave them the injection and then wrapped them up to make sure."

  "Have you told Egbert all this?" Ken asked gravely.

  Mary shook her head, frowning. "I don't know where he is, but the next time he comes here I shall tell him everything. Lucy must be properly punished—such a selfish, conceited woman. Brushing people out of her way like flies, and thinking she can simply enjoy herself without paying for it."

  "I can't believe all this," Ken said, looking unusually serious. "Lucy isn't like that—it's out of character. Let's go into the living room and talk it over. I'm sure you're wrong."

  Mary pushed the eggs off the flame and turned to slip some bread into the toaster. "Wait until I get this together—you must be hungry, and we might as well eat, while we're talking."

  Ken got a tray from one of the cupboards and began to pile plates and cups onto it. "We'll take it into the living room and eat from our laps," he said. "It's cooler in there."

  "Oh no, no," Mary protested, shocked. "It gets crumbs around, and it's so messy. Take the tray into the dining room. Ken."

  But Ken had the entire meal loaded onto the tray, and he bore it straight to the living room, so that Mary had perforce to follow or go hungry. She established herself in a straight chair, and Ken said, "I'll personally go down on my hands and knees and retrieve all crumbs after the feast; so smooth out your brow."

  She gave him a faint, patient smile, and sighed. "I think you'll find it quite good. I really do cook as well as Lucy, even though she never would admit it." She leaned back in her chair and shook her head a little. "The unutterable gall of the woman—coming here and cooking for us, after what she did."

  "But, Mary—" Ken began.

  Her eyes flashed. "Now you listen to me, Ken Smith. I would never have thought it of her, myself—never—but I can see it all now. Lucy is selfish and lazy, and good clothes and easy living mean everything to her. She simply would not face giving up what she had, in order to try and pay Homer what she owed him. Perhaps she didn't plan it too far ahead, but when Homer got that stuff from Mr. Boxton it probably gave her the idea. She would kill Homer, embalm him, and put him in the drawer.

  "I am convinced that she came over here, that Sunday, knowing that I had gone to the cottage. I suppose Homer let her in, and she found Betty with him. She had always hated Betty, and anyway, she could not afford to wait, so she cooked one of her little meals for them, and they ate it, and died. She did the embalming job on them and wrapped them in that curtain material, so that they would not decompose in the drawer. She must have been worried when she heard that the moving company wouldn't take the bed up until they had a full load—and I know that when I told her about you two she advised me against letting you stay here—and you can see why. Anyhow, when I asked her to chaperon you, she came rushing right over—naturally.

  "She must have been terrified when she found evidences of Homer around the place—knowing as she did that he was dead."

  Mary paused, gave a little shudder, and moistened her lips.

  "She must have caught Suzy lighting Homer's pipe during the party, and she knew at once that Suzy had found them. She was frantic, I expect, and she realized that she should have nailed up the drawer after putting them into it. You remember, Eugenia, you saw it slightly open. Anyway, she nailed it up then—it would be easy because the holes were already there, and the nails would fit right in. I guess it was the next night that you said something about opening the drawer, and I told you to leave it alone. Lucy must have heard and been afraid that you would open it anyway, so in her panic she tried to move them to the bin in the kitchen, but had time only for Homer—"

  "No," I interrupted, "that would have been impossible. There was a man on guard in the hall."

  "I know, but my room has two doors—one out into the main hall, and the other into the foyer, right next to the kitchen."

  "But we were with her," I protested. "I was anyway. I know—"

  "We were all asleep by eleven-thirty," Mary interrupted impatiently, "including, no doubt, that policeman in the hall. Anyway, she crept across behind him to my room and got Homer into the bin, taking him through that other door, and then she realized that they both would not fit. All those radishes had to go in, too, so that they would be completely covered. She had no time to think of another place for Betty, so she nailed the drawer again and hoped for the best. At least if Homer weren't found there would be no obvious motive for Lucy to have killed Betty—it would look more like my doing—"

  Ken made a restless movement, seemed on the verge of an exclamation, and then relaxed back into his chair with his eyes on Mary's face. I dropped my head against the back of my chair, feeling tired and confused.

  "You remember," Mary continued, "that I said I'd have to clean out the bin? Well, Lucy came to me directly afterward and said she was going out and made me promise not to clean the bin until she got back. She persuaded me to take a nap, which I badly needed, and when Eugenia and I were both in our rooms she came back, locked us in, and put Homer back in the drawer."

  "But how?" Ken asked. "How could she possibly manage it by herself?"

  "I imagine she put a sort of strap through those bindings—it would make it much easier to pull the body around. Of course it would take a strong back— but she has one.

  "Later, she got back just in time to see Eugenia kneeling down with a hand already in that drawer—and without waiting for anything, she picked up that silver box and hit her over the head. Lucky for you, Eugenia, that it was only a light box and did no more than knock you out."

  I moved my head restlessly on the back of my chair, and Ken murmured, "But there's something more—"

  "Oh yes." Mary nodded. "After she had dealt with Eugenia she had to move Homer again, so she put him under the studio couch where she was sleeping—he couldn't be seen there unless someone were to get down on hands and knees and look under. But even Lucy lost her nerve when she tried to sleep there, so she got Eugenia to change—never dreaming, of course, that Eugenia would pull the couch away from the wall. Lucy undoubtedly hoped to get Homer back into the drawer in time for the movers, who are coming tomorrow."

  Mary stopped talking and leaned back, looking white and exhausted. Ken got up and began to pace the room and I poured more coffee for myself. After a while Mary started to nibble at her toast and scrambled eggs, and I knew she was excited when I saw that she was dropping crumbs
onto her lap.

  Ken suddenly stopped in front of her and said, "I can't believe it. For instance, why was Suzy killed and left for anyone to discover—in order to cover up the murders of Homer and Betty?"

  Mary was silent for a moment, and then she looked up at him.

  "No, of course not—that would have been silly. Oh no—Suzy's death was an accident."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  THERE WAS THE SOUND of a footstep on the balcony, and Egbert stepped into the room.

  Mary started, looked up, and colored angrily. "Mr. Egbert, I object to your coming into my apartment in that informal way. If you have any business here you can ring the doorbell and wait until you are admitted."

  Egbert nodded with the utmost aplomb and said, "Certainly, Mrs. Fredon. I was talking to Mrs. Budd and Emerson, and it seemed simpler to come through this way."

  "I must ask you not to do it again," Mary said crossly. "How long have you been out there—listening?"

  "I heard your story," Egbert admitted without embarrassment. "I'd like to discuss it with you."

  "It was not for your ears. I have no proof of any of this, and you can hardly arrest Lucy on the strength of my opinions."

  "I know my business;" Egbert said, exhibiting a touch of hauteur himself. "Do you know the exact amount that was owed to your husband by Mrs. Davis?"

  "No, I do not." Mary pressed her fingers against her eyes for a moment and drew a long, slow breath. "I know only that it was quite a large sum."

  "It seems a little odd," Egbert suggested. "You and your husband had two joint accounts—one savings and one checking. I should think, therefore, that you'd have known exactly what was loaned to Mrs. Davis."

  "No, no," Mary said wearily. "Homer cashed some bonds—it had nothing to do with the bank accounts."

  "Why did he want the money back just lately?"

  "I don't know."

  "Yes, you do," said Egbert. "He wanted to buy an Egyptian mummy."

  Mary rested her head against the back of her chair and closed her eyes.