Mr Splitfoot (Dr Basil Willing)

by Helen McCloy

  At this end the floor rose in a sort of ramp, sloping against the walls on either side to a height of about two feet, ending against the wall at the end of the hall near the stairs. This ramp must be the ceiling of the second flight of stairs below, she decided. Funny she hadn’t noticed it before, but then she had never before examined the upper hall with such an analytic eye.

  Old houses remodeled, like this one, had all sorts of architectural oddities. Patching up an old house was like patching up an old dress. You had to contrive all sorts of compromises, and the result was often more curious than beautiful, for there was no unity of design. . . .

  That ramp would make a good slide . . .

  At fifteen, you can still step back and forth across the line between adolescence and childhood. Lucinda stepped back. With knees bent, clutching the wall and leaning forward, she walked up the ramp as if she were walking into a high wind. At the top she turned and, bracing her hands against either wall, lowered herself gingerly into a sitting position, her legs straight in front of her. It was going to make a perfect slide. She must point out the advantages of this discovery to Vanya.

  She let go of the walls. The varnished surface was slippery. She didn’t want to slide too fast. Both arms flashed out. She tried to break her speed by pressing each hand against either wall. The left wall was solid, but the right wall gave way.

  Her right hand clutched air and she slid, faster and faster, to a painful bump at the root of the ramp. She looked back.

  A panel in the right wall had opened under pressure, like a narrow door. She was looking through the opening into a shallow chamber on the wrong side of the wall, the side where there was no plaster, only rough laths nailed to posts or beams with crumbs of plaster in the slits between the laths so you knew there was plaster on the other side.

  The wrong side of the wall . . . The words echoed silently through that Montaigne part of her mind where she held endless conversations with her various selves. Just the echo of the words gave her a wonderful behind-the-scenes feeling. Life is a play, said one of her other selves. And the backstage part is much more interesting than the footlights part, where everybody is all dressed up and aware of an audience. Often she argued bitterly with her other selves, but this time she was in hearty agreement.

  Was this Vanya’s secret? It must be. She had really stolen a march on him, but suppose one of Them happened to come along now and discovered the whole thing?

  She scrambled up the ramp and plunged through the opening, pulling the panel shut behind her. Now let Them come!

  She was in total darkness, but she had matches for cigarettes. Forbidden cigarettes smoked with one’s head leaning out an open window so there would be no telltale odor of smoke. They were big kitchen matches that Vanya had taught her to light with one flick of her thumbnail last summer. She lit one now.

  In the fluttering light she saw a ceiling of rough laths and beams that seemed as high above her head as a cathedral roof. There were skylights up there. Dark dusty glass directly above her reflected the small light. She was standing in a narrow well, with walls on four sides. The walls rose to about two feet above her head, while the roof itself was at least twenty, possibly thirty, feet above her. She began to climb.

  It was easy. Rough boards nailed between the posts that supported the lath wall made a ladder. At the top she found herself in an attic almost as big as the house itself. There were beams to walk on. She knew enough about attics to know that if she stepped on the lath and plaster part between the beams, she might crash through the ceiling below, so she was careful. Vanya’s secret was her secret now and she didn’t want anyone else to know.

  They didn’t know yet. She was sure of that. How often had she heard Their high, airy voices: Crow’s Flight has charm. Parts of it are really old and the view is delightful, but there’s one drawback: no storage space. Not even an attic! Seems odd in an old house, doesn’t it?

  If They’d searched thoroughly, They would have found the place, but They hadn’t cared enough to search thoroughly and, luckily, there were no unexplained windows outside to draw Their attention to it. From the ground you wouldn’t see skylights among all those gables.

  But why hadn’t the Crowes told Daddy about the attic when he rented the house from them last spring? David Crowe and Daddy had been close friends for years. You didn’t hide such things from a close friend. There was only one explanation: David Crowe didn’t know about the attic himself. But how was that possible? The house had been in his family a long time. That was where it got the name— Crow’s Flight.

  When had David Crowe acquired the house? Only a year ago, just before Daddy rented it from him. He had never lived in the house himself. He had told Daddy he couldn’t afford to keep it up. And who had the house before the Crowes? A distant cousin in her nineties who died last year. So it was possible that David Crowe didn’t know about the attic. When people got into their nineties, anything could happen. She might have forgotten to tell him or she might not have thought it important. That must be it, one way or the other.

  And that was wonderful, because it meant the secret was all hers. Hers and Vanya’s. This wonderful secret place, like the mind itself, where nothing was forbidden and everything was hidden from everyone else. Ali Baba could not have felt greater exaltation as he set out to explore the treasure cave.

  There was treasure here, too. Things that could never have belonged to Folly or Daddy. Old things. A bird’s-eye maple washstand with a marble top. A pitcher and bowl, slop jar and chamber pot of incongruously lovely china, rosebuds on white. Dresden? A bicycle with a large front wheel and a small back wheel. A little Winchester rifle with a stock of figured walnut polished to the glow of a horse chestnut. A set of miniature furniture for a child, painted white with little wreaths of forget-me-nots. What child had loved it long ago? Most fascinating of all were the small trunks with rounded lids that made one think of chubby, pot-bellied babies.

  Stepping delicately on the beams between the laths, she moved to the nearest trunk. It wasn’t locked, but the latches were rusty. She had lit three more matches and broken a nail before she pried the trunk open. The hinges creaked like a chalk pencil on a slate. The lid was lined with faded wallpaper, green on white, a landscape with figures like a toile de Jouy print. There was a smell of camphor and mildew, with a faint trace of lavender and something else—the smell of oldness.

  She lifted out one dress after another, ankle-length dresses with leg-of-mutton sleeves, narrow waists and full skirts, all made for a rather small woman. Black tulle and jet. Pale pink silk with tiny black dots and a black velvet sash. Voile printed with faded pink roses and faintly blue ribbons on a white ground, Dresden china colors. A fur jacket. Didn’t they used to call it a “sack” or was it a “sacque”? Even it had leg o’ mutton sleeves. Real sealskin too. Where it had worn, the seams were copper-brown. Real sealskin wasn’t dyed totally black in those days.

  Next came the hats. A small hat—a toque?—all coq feathers, black and green and iridescent as an oil slick. Long kid gloves, yellowed white with mother of pearl buttons. A fan of wilted white feathers with ivory sticks shedding fluff as if the moths had been at it. A man’s opera cloak, black broadcloth lined with white satin, softer than anything she had ever touched. Opera glasses, gold and white mother of pearl, with a long handle that opened and shut like a spyglass and tiny letters that read Lemaire, Paris. They were in a little bag of purple panne velvet softer even than the satin.

  There were scarf pins for a man’s Ascot tie and hatpins in pairs, the kind they used to use to skewer huge hats to pompadour and chignon, top-heavy confections of flowers and ribbons and straw, feathers and velvet and tulle. Hatpins with long, slender steel shafts and points so sharp they could go through layer after layer of felt and velvet and satin. They had quaintly ornamental handles—little flexible fish made of tiny overlapping gold plates, roses made of rose quartz, little elephants carved out of old ivory.

  The next trunk was a
disappointment. Just old letters and papers. Some of them were really old. A Commission from the Supreme Executive Council of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania made out to Josiah Crowe, gentleman, as lieutenant of a Company of foot in the first Battalion of Militia, in the County of Philadelphia, dated May 1st, 1786, and signed B. Franklin.

  Lucinda tossed it, and other stupid old things like it, to one side, until she came to something more promising—a love letter.

  Dearest Amelia

  You know that I love you, and only you. Though your father is so inalterably opposed . . .

  What was the date on this one?

  19th May, 1863.

  For the first time a sense of life’s desperate futility moved through Lucinda’s immature mind, like the chilly wind that comes before a storm. Whatever the outcome of that letter, “dearest Amelia” and “your father” and the writer were all dead now.

  She dropped the paper and picked up another.

  Tapking and Gennerich, grocers

  1 lb. butter. . . . . . . . . . . . . .06

  Six cents for butter? What was the date here? Oh, 1904 . . .

  Lucinda thrust her hand down again among the packets of yellowed envelopes.

  “It’s wonderful you were able to get here on such a dreadful night.”

  Lucinda froze. It was Folly’s voice and the words had an uncanny clarity as if she were speaking directly into Lucinda’s ear.

  “I do hope you’ll be comfortable in this room,” went on Folly. “If there’s anything you need, just let me know.”

  “Thanks. . . . We only just made it, you know. In another hour nobody will be able to get through.” The harsh voice and slurred enunciation were unmistakable—Serena Crowe.

  “You’ve done this room over charmingly. This rose rug with the pale blue walls is so—so French. Everything’s just lovely. I know we’ll be comfortable.”

  “I’m so glad you like it,” went on Folly. “I just looked in to tell you that cocktails are at seven.”

  “We’ll be ready. David is in the shower now . . .”

  So both the Crowes were here, David and his wife. Lucinda sighed. If only she had paid more attention when Folly was talking about a guest list for this weekend. They couldn’t know about the attic. They just couldn’t for, if they had, they would certainly have told Daddy, and yet . . . Suppose they did know? Perhaps she ought to warn Vanya before he came back tonight. But how could she? There would probably be people in the living room all evening, and the telephone was there. No other extension in this house . . .

  A door closed. There was a click of heels. Folly walking on the parquet between the scatter rugs in the upper hall. The sound died away as she reached the staircase.

  Another door opened and a man’s voice spoke. David Crowe’s voice. “Folly is looking well.”

  “You thought so? I thought she looked awful, but men never see how she really looks. She blinds them with her dazzling charm. Hasn’t she made this room horrid? Imagine a rose rug with blue walls!”

  “I think it’s rather original. Contrast and all that.”

  “You have no taste either. Cocktails are at seven. She just stopped in to tell us.”

  “It’s seven now.”

  “Then I’d better go down.”

  “You’ll not go until I’m ready to go with you.”

  “Why not?”

  “I suppose you think I don’t know what’s going on, but I do.”

  Lucinda crouched closer to the lath and plaster, motionless, ears straining. This was more fun than television, and something like it, only you couldn’t see, just hear. Rather like having a microphone in a guest room. Could you hear what was said in the other bedrooms, too? What about the living room if its door into the hall were open? How long had Vanya been using this place? What a lot he must know about everybody in the house by this time. . . .

  Below her, voices were growing louder.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  “I think you do!”

  “What absolute nonsense!”

  “Serena, I’ve had just about as much of this as I can stand. I can see the way you look at him and the way he looks at you.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake! You—you’re insane! Keep your voice down. Someone might hear us.”

  “No one could possibly hear us in here,” said David Crowe’s voice. “The walls are too thick.”

  Lucinda smiled. Surely that proved neither one of them knew about the attic. She wouldn’t have to warn Vanya, after all.

  “I didn’t want to come here this weekend.” David Crowe was still speaking. “I knew how you’d behave if we did, but I couldn’t think of any graceful way to get out of it.”

  “Is it so important to be graceful?”

  “Not to you—obviously. To me, it is. Bradford Alcott is my boss; Francis Swayne one of my authors. I can’t offend either one. So here we are and we must make the best of it. In other words, I shall not let you out of my sight for a moment.”

  “Oh, David, what has happened to us? It didn’t used to be like this.”

  “I’ve wakened up. That’s all. I now understand why the Arabs say a wise man never leaves his wife alone with another man for the time it takes to cook a soft-boiled egg.”

  “Really, David!”

  “Serena, I’m warning you. If you look at him just once the way you did last time in New York—”

  “Are you nearly ready to go downstairs?”

  “No. I’m going into the bathroom to shave now and I expect to find you still here when I come out. You’re not going down alone. We’re going together.”

  A door closed with force, not quite a slam. There was silence and then the wail of a radio: Lo-o-ve . . . is a many-splendo-o-red . . . thi-ing . . .

  Lucinda blew out the match she was holding and lit another. She had only three left. She guarded the flame with her open palm as she moved carefully from beam to beam. She’d better bring a flashlight next time. She had no wish to start a fire here when everything was getting so interesting.

  He . . . him . . . What a pity David Crowe hadn’t mentioned any name! Perhaps if one watched Serena Crowe carefully during dinner, she might give herself away . . . The way you look at him . . . That last time in New York . . . Yes, it really did sound as if Serena Crowe would betray herself to a close observer . . . How many men would there be at dinner anyway?

  Lucinda didn’t really care about the Crowes at this time. She was like a naturalist observing strange animals in their natural state. She enjoyed observing the wretched creatures and the way they took their pathetic little affairs so seriously, but she had no desire to interfere.

  That came later.

  The match flame died as she came to the “well,” her name for the shallow chamber that opened into the hall. In darkness she could feel her way down from crosspiece to crosspiece, just like feeling her way down a ladder.

  Now she was at the bottom of the well. A faint line of light from the hall outlined the panel she had closed when she entered. She crouched beside it, listening. Not a sound.

  The Crowes would be in their room still. Daddy and Folly were probably upstairs changing, too, in the separate rooms they occupied. Those strangers who had come in to ask for shelter were probably still in the living room and Ginevra Alcott with them. Where was her husband? Bathing or changing, no doubt. Would this be a good time to slip out into the hall without too great a risk of being seen? Or should she wait until everyone else had gone downstairs?

  She counted to one hundred slowly. Still not a sound. Her demon told her to take a chance. Now!

  She pushed open the panel, stepped onto the ramp, drew the panel shut without a sound. There was no knob or catch. You had to pull it shut by the edge of its molding. Once in place, there was no break or crack in the wall that showed from this side. Had it always been this way, a door without a knob or catch? Or had there once been some sort of door handle that someone had removed?

  She slid down
the ramp and started toward the stairs.

  Chapter Four

  BASIL LOOKED UP as a girl came into the living room. He saw a wan, narrow face, speckled like the egg of some wild bird, and a body that was all angular adolescence in a mini-skirt. A Modigliani consumptive? No, a Cranach Virgin. Her hair was pure Cranach—long, straight, thin, lank, falling almost to her waist. How Gothic fashions would have suited her! A long, vertical dress, tight sleeves, pointed toes, hair strained back from the high forehead with a single pearl or ruby held by a thin chain between the eyes like a Brahman caste mark.

  The modern shift she was wearing hung straight from shoulder to hem, but, unlike the medieval shift, this was a “psychedelic” print—discordant colors, magenta, mustard and turquoise in a blurred pattern that created an optical illusion of writhing motion.

  Francis Swayne and Folly had both gone upstairs and it seemed as if Basil ought to introduce Gisela and himself, but before he could find words, Ginevra Alcott spoke from the little seat built into the nook between the chimney and the hall door.

  “This is Frank Swayne’s daughter, Lucinda. Mrs. Willing. Dr. Willing.”

  Only the girl’s eyes moved—gray-green eyes that slid away from Basil’s gaze before the eyelids could drop. The recoil was automatic as a reflex. Why was she so evasive?

  She spoke in a pale voice. “Dr. Willing? Dr. Basil Willing?”

  “I’m flattered, but also surprised.” He leaned forward to watch the play of expression on her face more closely. “You really do know my name!”

  She sank to the hearth rug, seeming weightless as a falling leaf. She tossed her long hair, then smoothed it with one hand. Girls with hair as long and loose as that couldn’t leave it alone. They were always fussing with it. She looked at the fire as she answered him: “Vanya and I read one of your books last summer.”