Mr Splitfoot (Dr Basil Willing)

by Helen McCloy

  How heartless the words sounded. Why had she married him if she felt this way about him under all the elegance and grace and charm that she deployed so adroitly wherever she went? She didn’t need money or power. She had those already from her own family. Or so Folly had said once to her husband in Lucinda’s hearing. Was it impossible for Ginevra to have too much power?

  “. . . and you didn’t hear any sound during the night?”

  “None whatsoever. I doubt if any of the women could have heard a sound from the room where David Crowe died. It’s off by itself at the end of the upper hall, facing the stairs. It’s a corner room, and two of its walls are outside walls. The third wall divides it from the upper hall and the fourth from Lucinda’s bathroom. We all had our doors shut. The men downstairs were far more likely to hear a noise in that room than we were.”

  “Why?”

  “Have you studied the plan of the house?” Ginevra sounded like a schoolteacher: Have you done your homework? “The fireplace in the bedroom where David died is in the same chimney as the living-room fireplace. If you know anything about old houses, you know what that means. A conversation in that bedroom may be heard in the living room below.

  “And that’s not all. When central heating was put in this house long ago, some odd devices were used that would be scorned by a modern heating engineer. They heated the ground floor with ducts from a hot-air furnace in the cellar, but upstairs they just put open registers or grilles in the floors without ducts, knowing that heat rises and hoping that this would keep rooms upstairs reasonably warm. There’s still a register in the ceiling of this room which leads through the floor of the room above, the haunted room. Haven’t you noticed?”

  “No. Where is it?”

  “Right here.”

  A stirring, scraping of chairs, footfalls out of step with one another. A sudden silence.

  “There. See the fancy rococo grille? Right in front of the fireplace. It’s in shadow between two exposed beams, so I suppose you might not notice it unless you were looking for it.”

  “Why is there no light from above?”

  “There must be a rug over the grille upstairs—probably the hearth rug of the upstairs fireplace.”

  “Why don’t you go upstairs, Cyril, and see what’s there.”

  Footsteps on the stairs. Lucinda and Vanya lay still as mice in a wainscot.

  “Why do you suppose the register is so close to the fireplace?” That was Marriott’s voice again.

  “So it will carry warmth from the fire upstairs as well as warmth from the heating system. Isn’t it silly to have a thermostat in this room? Every time they light a fire in here, the room gets so hot that the thermostat shuts off and the rest of the house freezes.”

  “They should have the thermostat in the hall,” said Marriott.

  “They should install a thermostat in every room!” retorted Ginevra.

  “But that would be far more expensive and—” Marriott’s voice stopped as if he had suddenly realized that when you were talking to Ginevra Alcott you were talking to someone who had never been forced to regard expense as an obstacle and who could not imagine what life was like for those who did. Lucinda wondered what it would do to you to live a life in which nothing you really wanted was ever denied to you. . . .

  “It was a hearth rug, Captain.”

  “Okay, Cyril. The light’s coming through now. Can you hear me all right up there?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “If this were my house, I’d have all these holes in the upstairs floors filled in,” said Marriott. “I like privacy.”

  “Oh, most of them were filled in long ago,” said Ginevra. “The grilles were removed and the holes boarded over and covered with carpet in every upstairs bedroom. The whole upstairs is heated by ducts to the furnace now.”

  “Then why wasn’t this one filled in at the same time?”

  “This one is in the haunted room, the room that was locked up for two generations. Had you forgotten? No one thought that room would ever be used again, so no one bothered with it. Of course when people were here in the living room, there were no noises from that empty room above to remind people that the open grille was still there.”

  “But in all that time anything that was said down here in the living room could be heard up there in the haunted room?”

  “I suppose so, but that would hardly matter when no one wanted to go into the haunted room and it was kept locked up all the time.”

  “No one? How can you be sure? Let’s put it this way: anyone who could get hold of a key to that room, and who was not afraid of ghosts, could hear anything that was said in the living room at any time.”

  “I got an impression last night that everyone was rather afraid of the haunted room even though they didn’t care to admit it in so many words.”

  “Perhaps some were less afraid than others.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s been a good deal of storm and strife in this house according to the story Crowe told last night. I can’t help wondering if it may not have been caused by things that were overheard.”

  “What a frightful idea!” But Ginevra’s voice belied her words. She didn’t think it was frightful. Her voice was fruity with enthusiasm as she went on: “You mean one sister was with her lover in the room where he died later and the other sister, creeping down here when they thought she was asleep in her own room, heard everything?”

  “Wouldn’t that explain a crime of jealousy if there was one? Hearing is believing. Much more impact than hearsay.”

  “No wonder that room is haunted!” A chair scraped again. “If you don’t need me for anything further . . .?”

  “Not for the moment, Mrs. Alcott, but will you be kind enough to ask your husband if he can give us a few moments now?”

  “Brad? . . . Oh, yes, of course. . . .” There was a snag in her voice as if it had caught on something rough.

  Vanya shifted his cramped position gingerly to make as little noise as possible while he stretched his legs. Lucinda realized that one of her feet had gone to sleep. She rolled on her side so she could bend one knee and began to massage the offending foot. The pins-and-needles feeling was kind of fun—not pain, not pleasure, but something between the two.

  “I—I’m afraid there’s nothing I can tell you—”

  Lucinda stopped massaging her foot. She had not heard Bradford Alcott come into the room, but that was his voice, and how different it was from Ginevra’s voice. Ginevra assumed a superiority to other people, but, if you listened closely, you could hear a faint tremor of self-doubt underneath her assurance. Alcott had no doubts about his superiority. He knew.

  It wasn’t the sort of superiority that is based on contempt for other people. Contempt implies some form of response to others and Alcott was totally unresponsive. Underneath a thin skin of conventional propriety he maintained a single-minded boredom for everyone in the world save possibly himself, and Lucinda had an odd feeling that he didn’t care very much for himself either.

  Why hadn’t she realized this before? Was it because, until now, his rather pleasant appearance had distracted her from the full impact of his voice? But now she heard the voice alone, disembodied, it revealed itself as one long yawn of utter ennui made audible.

  Perhaps that was one of the advantages of eavesdropping: it isolated the voice from everything else. For wasn’t the voice the most revealing thing among all external aspects of personality?

  She wrenched her attention back to what Alcott was saying. It was hard to keep attention fixed on words dragged out so languidly.

  “I haven’t the slightest idea who wrote the letter. If it was written to my wife, I suppose it could have been written by either Swayne or Crowe.

  “Don’t misunderstand me. I am not suggesting that my wife is indiscreet, but she is romantic. Everyone we meet soon realizes that I am a dying man and therefore an inadequate husband. This exposes my wife to all sorts of advances.” A hint of ir
ony came into his voice. “The kind of thing that is regarded as an insult by a young woman and as a compliment by an old woman. My wife is just old enough to be gentle with any man who smiles at her.”

  Never before had Lucinda heard anyone speak of his own imminent death. Was it always like this at the end? Did you have to sit still and calm knowing that some time soon, in a year or a month or a moment, perhaps when it was least expected, you would suddenly cease to be a part of the world and it would go on quite happily without you? Was that why Alcott seemed so inhumanly detached and self-centered? Had she mistaken despair for arrogance?

  She looked at Vanya with wide eyes and whispered: “Do you suppose it takes courage to be old?”

  Vanya shook his head violently. He wasn’t answering her question. He was just warning her not to risk prolonged whispering.

  “I’m sorry.” That was Marriott’s voice. “Heart condition?”

  “That’s one name for it. My father died of it. I know exactly what to expect, only I don’t know when or where. This has been going on for two years and I’m tired of it. Almost a drop-that-other-shoe feeling . . . What else did you want to ask me?”

  “Which man is more likely to have written such a letter? Swayne or Crowe?”

  “I really can’t say with only the letter to go by. It’s extraordinary how much all men are alike when you get down to the erotic level of experience. It seems to be the bedrock of personality where individuality ends. That’s why I suppose all love letters are full of clichés. Certainly this one is. On the basis of the letter alone, I’d say that neither Crowe nor Swayne could have written it. They were both far too intelligent.”

  Vanya looked furious. “Clichés, indeed!” he muttered.

  “When you came down here with the others last night after leaving Crowe upstairs, did you hear any sounds at all from upstairs before you heard the bell ring?”

  “No, just the bell.”

  “What were the last words Crowe spoke when you and the others left him alone in the haunted room?”

  “I’ve tried to remember that since all this happened. Unfortunately the only thing I can recall doesn’t quite make sense, so I must have been mistaken.”

  “And that was?”

  “Willing had almost reached the door. I was halfway there and I looked back. Swayne was still standing beside Crowe. He clapped Crowe on the back and Crowe muttered something I didn’t quite catch. What it sounded like is absurd.” A faint chuckle tinged with embarrassment. “It sounded like Tobruk.”

  “Tobruk?”

  “Doesn’t the word mean a thing to your generation? That does make me feel old. It was a battle in North Africa. Of course Crowe wouldn’t have been talking about that, so he must have said something else, but what it was I cannot tell you.”

  They didn’t keep Alcott much longer. As soon as his footsteps receded, Cyril Jones said: “We must ask Swayne himself just what it was Crowe said.”

  There was a silence, then Marriott’s voice. “Too bad witnesses have to be questioned one right after another.”

  “Why?”

  “You don’t have time to digest what each one says before you go on to the next. So they overlap and blur together and— Oh, come in, Mr. Swayne. We were just going to send for you.”

  “I thought you’d be wanting me now. You’ve seen everyone else. I hope the morning has brought daylight in more senses than one.”

  “This morning has brought only fog in every sense. We’ve found what seems to be a love letter, typewritten, oddly enough, and addressed simply to ‘Dearest.’ The last part of it is missing, so there’s no signature. No one we’ve talked to knows who wrote it and there are no clues in the letter itself. It could have been written to anyone by anyone. Here it is. Can you make anything of it?”

  After a few moments the listeners heard Swayne’s voice again. “I’m afraid I can’t say anything except that I did not write it myself, and I doubt very much if either Crowe or Alcott wrote it. The wording of the letter doesn’t sound like either one of them. Brad is obviously too old and ill for this sort of thing, and the letter itself sounds pretty immature for a man like David Crowe.”

  Vanya was indignant. “I don’t see anything immature about it!”

  “Neither do I,” Lucinda whispered back. “What’s more, Mrs. Crowe did have a lover. I heard her husband accusing her. Why won’t any of them admit it? Don’t they know? Or are they just covering up for her?”

  Marriott was speaking again. “There seems some doubt about whether or not you intended to buy this house. Did you?”

  “Oh, yes. That was clearly understood between David and myself. I wouldn’t have made the alterations otherwise. I had an option to buy in my year’s lease.”

  “The ghost story didn’t discourage you?”

  “No, it rather added to my interest. What I believe is called a conversation piece these days.”

  “We’ve learned that there is an open register in the ceiling of this room that goes through the floor of the so-called haunted room above where Crowe died. It seems as if most sounds would come through such a register, even if it were covered with a rug. Do you recall hearing any sounds from up there, however slight, after Crowe was left there alone last night?”

  “No, I don’t recall a thing. Of course we were talking most of the time and I don’t suppose any of us would have noticed a slight sound.”

  “We’ve been told that just before Crowe was left alone in the haunted room last night he said something to you under his breath that was inaudible to the other two men. Do you remember what it was?”

  “Let’s see if I can remember . . . Willing and Alcott were almost at the door. I took a last look at things on the table to make sure everything was there and I think I put a hand on Crowe’s shoulder . . . Yes, I did. And I said . . . What the hell did I say? Oh, I know! I said: ‘Going to read?’ He had the book open on his knee, but he shook his head and muttered something. . . . What was it? Oh, yes. He shook his head and muttered: ‘No, to brood.’ I thought he meant to brood over some business worries. Now I’m not so sure, but that’s what I thought at the time. I smiled and lifted my hand in a sort of salute and followed the others out of the room. God, I had no idea that was the last time I’d see him alive. . . . Not too helpful, I’m afraid, is it?”

  “I hardly expected it to be, but there’s always a chance that some little thing will prove significant. I’ve even wondered about Mrs. Crowe’s sudden attack of nausea this morning. We weren’t questioning her about anything important. I suppose it could be just delayed shock. . . .”

  “Nausea can be a symptom of almost anything,” said Swayne. “Including pregnancy!” Obviously this was a new idea to Marriott. “That might have all kinds of ramifications. Inheritance . . . paternity . . .”

  But they were not destined to explore such ramifications at that moment.

  Footsteps clattered outside and a door crashed open.

  “Oh, Frank! I’m so sorry to bother you at a time like this, but is Giovanni here? No? Oh! My poor darling! He’s disappeared! He’s been kidnaped or murdered!”

  “Oh, hell!” whispered Vanya. “Didn’t she find my note?”

  “Dr. Willing stopped at my house on his way here and that was when I found Giovanni was gone. We looked everywhere. Tell them, Dr. Willing!”

  “Vittoria, please!” said Swayne. “Don’t talk so loud. You’ll disturb Serena.”

  “And why shouldn’t she be disturbed when my Giovanni—”

  “If only she wouldn’t call me Giovanni!” muttered Vanya.

  “Serena isn’t well. If you’ll just take it easy, I’ll ask Lucinda if she knows where Vanya is.”

  They heard his steps coming up the stairs. They heard his voice in the upper hall. “Folly, do you know where Lucinda is?”

  “No, I haven’t seen her for hours. Isn’t she in her room?”

  “Let’s look. . . . No, she isn’t. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen her all morning, have you?
”

  “No, I haven’t. Do you suppose she’s gone out?”

  “Let’s check her skis.”

  Footsteps going downstairs.

  Soon Vanya’s mother was in full cry. “Lucinda is missing, too? Oh! Oh! Oh! Those poor little ones! So trusting! So helpless! Babes in the woods! They’ll freeze to death. Or break their legs. Why was skiing ever invented? And with a murderer at large—probably a homicidal maniac—”

  “Let’s not assume the worst until we’ve made sure they’re not near the house,” said Marriott.

  “If they were near the house, they’d come if we called. Giovanni! Lucinda! GIOVANNI! You see, Captain Marriott? No answer. You must organize a search party. At once!”

  “We can’t just sit here,” whispered Lucinda. “What shall we do?”

  “Nothing. Unless we want them to find out about this hiding place and ruin it forever.”

  “But . . . this is awful!”

  “Yes, isn’t it?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  BASIL WILLING STAYED with Mrs. Radanine a little longer when the others went to search the woods. Though he managed to maintain an appropriate air of sympathetic concern, he felt as if he were watching an overdirected play. Vittoria was beside herself with fear, yet it was quite obvious that another part of her personality was having the time of its life. She was not unaware that she was the center of the stage.

  She had run her fingers through her hair and the sleek, black knot on the nape of her neck had uncoiled, giving her a look of disheveled grief. She had wrenched the low neck of her Mexican dress so that it had ripped across one shoulder. All she needed now was a touch of ashes to express mourning in its most ancient form.

  The effect was too much like a ritual to seem real. Basil had to remind himself that this woman’s son and the Swaynes’ daughter were missing in a neighborhood where a man had died in peculiar circumstances the night before and that it was just possible they might be in some real danger.

  Vittoria’s outcry had drawn Folly and Ginevra from upstairs. Now each was offering sympathy in her different way. Ginevra was all soothing volubility and vague reassurance, the caressing Irish lilt in her voice more pronounced than ever. Folly was offering practical suggestions.