Murder Comes First

by Frances

  Hemingway lasted them through the tunnel. It lasted Ferguson into a taxicab and Jerry into another. Whatever else you could say, Hemingway was durable. Perhaps it would have been better if Ferguson had talked about Hemingway at the luncheon.

  Jerry’s cab struggled in traffic, taking many minutes to get nowhere; half an hour to get where it was going. It was some time after five then. But Jerry need not have hurried. The apartment was empty, even of Martha. It took him several minutes of anxious search to find Pam’s note which, for reasons not immediately apparent to her husband, she had tucked under one of the telephones. Jerry used the telephone.

  There she was now, Bill Weigand thought, hearing the telephone ringing through the apartment door. And here he was, on the wrong side of the door, digging anxiously for his keys, convinced that each summons from the telephone would be its last. He jammed key into keyhole, pushed resentfully at the door, reached the telephone and said, “Yes.”

  “Bill,” Jerry said. “Pam left a note. Dorian’s with her.”

  Bill sat down. It seemed like a good idea.

  “Go ahead,” he told Jerry North. Jerry went ahead.

  “Here’s the note,” he said. “Listen. ‘It’s Aunt Lucy now, and I was all wrong the whole time. We’ve gone to Patterson.’ She signed it and then added a postscript. ‘Don’t worry, Dorian’s with me.’ Patterson?”

  “Damn,” Bill said.

  “I know,” Jerry said. “Feel the same way. What’s Patterson New Jersey got to do with it?”

  “New York,” Bill said. “At least, I suppose so. The Logans have a summer place up there. The Sandfords too. Damn it to hell.”

  “What about Aunt Lucy?” Jerry said. “I’ve been in Philadelphia all day.”

  “I don’t know,” Bill said. “I’ll find out. You’re home?”

  Jerry was. He would wait.

  It did not take long. Bill called Jerry North back with the information, imparted it crisply.

  “Pam’s taken our car,” Jerry said. “We’ll have to use yours. Want me to—”

  “I’ll pick you up,” Bill told him. “It’s—I’m afraid they’ve really stuck their necks out this time.”

  “When I get hold of her,” Jerry promised him. “I’ll be downstairs,” he added.

  The cellar was very small, extending only under part of the kitchen, and under none of the rest of the house. Once, Miss Lucinda decided, it had been used as a root cellar. Now it had in it what was apparently a heater of some sort, a few bare shelves and, obscurely, an ancient rocking chair. It was damp and smelled of mold, and the dripping yellow light from her torch did hardly more than intensify, by dimly contrasting with, utter darkness. But Miss Lucinda could discover that the floor was cemented, and she went very slowly, very carefully, very resolutely over the floor, all the time hearing sounds which might be made by rats. Once, in a corner, her light picked up a reflection and she thought it came from the eyes of some animal, from a rat’s eyes, and almost screamed before she realized that rats, unpleasant as they are in all particulars, are commonly not cyclopean and discovered that the reflection came from a tiny shard of broken glass.

  But she did not find what she expected—indication that the cement floor had been broken and then replaced. She could not be sure of this; it was not a subject on which she was at all informed. But she was certain there would be something to show—an irregularity, a difference in color—something to be seen if one looked for it. And, however she looked for it, there was nothing.

  Then it must be outside, and that was—well, clearly, that was beyond her. That was a labor of Hercules, or at least of several men with—with shovels. (Or was it spades?) It was, Miss Lucinda reflected, Adam who delved, while Eve span. She would have to get back to somebody and—well, spin her yarn. She could, she assured herself, a tale unfold. It was absurd, indeed, that no one else, apparently, had noticed how all this and the famous one ran parallel, or almost. And then she thought—goodness, whatever did I say in that note? She remembered very well, however; and remembered she had still been wrong. But would anyone, then, be able to make anything of it? Make something of it and—come?

  Miss Lucinda started for the steep staircase. She must, in some way, get back.

  Then she heard, above, the unmistakable sound of people walking, and hurried toward the staircase. They had come after all. They—She heard voices and, half way up the steep stairs, stopped. They were not the voices of anyone who would, having got her note and understood it, have come after her.

  “—if she is, it is,” a man’s voice said. “We know that. And she is—”

  The voice was familiar to Miss Lucinda, near the top of the cellar stairs now, listening close to the door. It was—why, it was Paul Logan’s voice! What was he doing here?

  “—only guessing,” a girl’s voice said, and this voice Miss Lucinda did not recognize. But if it was a girl it was probably Rose Hickey’s daughter. What was her name? Lynn—that was it.

  The two were moving around as they talked. They were opening things and closing them. It sounded as if they were looking for something, as she had been. She could tell them it would be no use. But why were they here?

  “—talked yourself into it,” the girl said. “Trying to prove to Mrs. North and that friend of hers that you and—”

  They went, moving with the light, quick steps of youth, into the large bedroom, and Miss Lucinda could no longer hear what they said. Very cautiously, she opened the door. Now she could hear, or almost hear.

  “—typewriter, for one thing—” Paul Logan said, and then must, from the muffled sound, have put his head into the closet or, possibly, under a bed. The girl said nothing, but appeared to be opening and closing the drawers of the chests. That puzzled Miss Lucinda. It couldn’t be in one of those.

  “—with her,” Paul said, taking his head, apparently, out of whatever it had been in. “That would be the payoff. If you don’t think the clothes are.”

  “I’ll admit the clothes,” the girl said. “How do you figure the kitchen?”

  Paul Logan said something which Miss Lucinda could not hear. She could hear the girl say, “Well,” doubtfully, as if in reply.

  They had finished with the big bedroom and were coming out of it. Miss Lucinda gently closed the cellar door and waited. They went into the living room. She opened the door again, but could only hear them moving about; hear the sound of voices, but not the words. Then, unexpectedly, Paul Logan raised his voice.

  “—won’t hold them a minute,” he said. “Probably a bluff from the start. So where do they come back?”

  The girl said something Miss Lucinda could not hear.

  “You’re damned right,” Paul said. “That’s where they come back. Particularly since your mother—”

  The voice faded out again. It faded back in.

  “I know she couldn’t,” Paul said. “I realize that, Lynn. Eventually, they’d get it out of her.”

  Lynn said something.

  “That isn’t good enough,” Paul said. “You have to get away with it. I’m not going to let—”

  But what he was not going to let did not appear. His voice was muffled again to Miss Lucinda, listening at her door, trying to piece it together. She could not make it come out. Paul Logan and Lynn Hickey were looking for something. But if she was right, they were not looking for the right thing. But, if not that, what? And what were the missing words which would fill in the crossword puzzle of their speech?

  None of it, and this was clear, fitted in with what she was certain was the truth. When people talked of “getting away with something” it was—well, it was a very strange way to talk; a frightening way to talk. Of course, nowadays people often talked strangely; perhaps they talked of “getting away with” quite innocent things. It must be that, in this case; they must be there, although looking in chest drawers did not indicate it, on the same unpleasant errand as herself. If so—

  Miss Lucinda opened her door further. Paul was always such a
sweet boy, although certainly under his mother’s thumb. (Although now he sounded resolute enough.) No doubt Lynn was a sweet girl, really. If what they were saying—had been saying, since now she could hear nothing—made her obscurely uneasy, it was obviously because there was so much which she had not heard. Snatches of conversation could be so misleading. She had read a short story recently in which everything turned on that, although in the end it was all cleared up. It was ridiculous for her to be uneasy; for her, since they must have the same purpose as she had—and since they unquestionably had means of transportation, which she did not have—not to join them. Before they finished and—

  Miss Lucinda realized that she no longer heard any sound in the house, no sound of movement or of voices. Oh, she thought, I’ve waited too long. I’ve just stood here and let them go without me. I—

  She opened the door and hurried out into the kitchen. She knew then, immediately, that she had been too late. The house was, except for herself, empty again. They had given up their search; since there were two of them they had been much quicker; they might have been in the house for some time before she heard them.

  It was quite dark now in the house. Even the faint yellow seepage of light from the almost exhausted flashlight in Miss Lucinda’s hand was visible in the shadowy kitchen.

  It did not help her much in the even more shadowy living room, and her progress across it, although she tried to hurry, was slow. But she reached the front door, and opened it after only a brief struggle with the knob of the snap lock, and stepped out into the open. It was not really dark yet; not entirely dark. It was the gloaming—lovely word.

  She did not see anybody, or any car, although she had certainly expected a car. It was as if Paul Logan and Lynn had stepped out of the house and vanished in the dusk. It was as if—

  Miss Lucinda did not know which way to go to find them, but she nevertheless stepped away from the house, walked a little way across the lawn in front of it.

  She did not hear any sound. She felt only a great, stunning pain in her head. Then it was all dark.

  10

  Tuesday, 6:15 P.M. to 7:35 P.M.

  At a quarter after six, Pam and Dorian passed the pedestaled elephant in Somers; at six thirty their car hesitated at the fork just outside Brewster on Route 22. Patterson was ahead, Brewster itself to the left. Oak Hill Road was, presumably, in the vicinity of Patterson. Pam swung the car left.

  They would, clearly, never find Oak Hill Road unaided, and Brewster was the place to find aid. There would be somebody there who knew.

  “A taxi driver,” Dorian said. “Country taxi drivers know everything.”

  There was a short, heavy, beaming man when they parked in front of the Brewster railroad station. He was sitting in a car marked “Taxi” and Pam went up to him. She said she wanted to find Oak Hill Road in Patterson.

  “Sure-a,” said Mr. Brisco. “Looka. You go uppa Twenta maybe foura fivea mile, thena left and thena right maybe eighta nina mile thena uppa hill and atta top—”

  “Please,” Pam said. “I’m afraid I—”

  “There you be-a careful,” Mr. Brisco said. “You goa thisa way—no place. You comma right back. You goa the righta way, Oaka Hill maybe threea foura miles.” He beamed. “Easy,” he said. “Just like-a I say.”

  “The Sandford cottage,” Pam said. “You know-a—I mean, you know where it is?”

  “Sure,” Mr. Brisco said. “I taka lady there. Alla closed up.”

  Pamela North knew relief.

  “And brought her back, then?” she said. “A lady with a pink hat?”

  “That-a-hat!” Mr. Brisco said. “Beaut. Pritt. My daught she like-a hat like that. Middle daughter. Sucha hat!”

  “Yes,” Pam said. “It’s—it’s quite a hat. Did you bring the lady back?”

  “Bringa back?” Mr. Brisco said. “Why bringa back?”

  “You mean she stayed there?”

  “Sure,” Mr. Brisco said. “Why-a not?”

  There were, Pam thought, a good many answers to that, but none relevant.

  “Can you guide us there?” she said. “For whatever it would be, of course?”

  “Twoa doll,” Mr. Brisco said. “You ready now?”

  Pam was, as soon as she was back in the car.

  “You like-a goa fast?” Brisco asked, as she departed. She did indeed. She said so. She backed and turned and Mr. Brisco’s car leaped out of its stall and dashed down Main Street. Mr. Brisco’s hand waved gayly out of his window and at first Pam thought he was signaling her. But then she saw that people on the sidewalk waved back.

  Mr. Brisco’s car reached the intersection of Route 22 and stopped for a light. It started up again, going left. It went very rapidly; it was first a car in the beam of Pam’s headlights; then it was two red lights, retreating. Pam pressed down hard. When Mr. Brisco saida fast he meanta fast.

  The way was as tortuous as it had sounded and, after the first clean run of some miles, the pace slackened. Mr. Brisco went left, slowing, holding his hand out in signal, and the road became more winding. He turned and turned again, and Pam hung on grimly.

  “What a place to live!” Dorian said, with feeling, holding on. They bumped.

  “Probably a short-a cut,” Pam said. “I wish—”

  But Mr. Brisco had disappeared over a hill and around a curve. She abandoned speech to spurt after him. He was rounding another curve. She hoped that, when he next turned off, he would wait for her to catch up. His lights, and Pam’s behind him, tore at the darkness.

  “I don’t,” said Pamela North, fighting a heavy car which tried to ride doubtful shoulders, “see why we don’t always have daylight saving. Doubled. Who wants it light in the morning?”

  “Cows, from all I’ve heard,” Dorian said. “Whew!”

  “Like them,” Pam said. “I—”

  She suddenly braked furiously, and the tires whined on the pavement. Mr. Brisco slowed down as rapidly as he took off. Now he motioned her alongside.

  His car stood just short of a narrow road, inadequately paved.

  “Oaka Hill,” he said. “Mist Sandford firsta house.”

  He did not himself, Pam gathered, plan to continue farther.

  “Two-a cars,” he explained. “Notta much-a space.”

  Dorian, nearest, gave him two dollars; added half a dollar for good measure and his engaging personality. He waved as they started, turning up the narrow road. Behind them, he turned into the road, backed out again. He was gone. The countryside felt the emptier.

  The narrow road twisted—climbed and twisted. Now the powerful lights were on it, now they glared at trees on one side and now at bushes on the other. Pam drove at thirty, then at twenty, shifted to second. They were bright and noisy in the night, announcing their coming to whoever, whatever, might listen. An animal stood for a second in their path, facing the lights—a big animal. With a bound it was gone, a white tail flickering for an instant in the lights.

  “I’d hate to run over a deer,” Pam said. “Do you suppose we’ve passed it?”

  It was hard to tell; in the end they almost did, but Dorian, forcing her vision into the darkness, saw faint markings to the right and the little lawn beyond them. Pam stopped, backed a few feet carefully, and turned in. As she turned, her lights flooded the front of a low, sprawling house. The house was lighted and after a moment, the door opened and a man was standing in it. Pam cut her motor, and dropped the beam of her lights.

  The man was Barton Sandford. He said, “Who is it?” in a loud voice. He said, “Who’re you looking for?”

  “Mrs. North,” Pam said. “For—” She paused.

  “Oh,” Sandford said. “Well—come on in.”

  Pam and Dorian went on. It was unexpectedly chilly out of the car; unexpectedly quiet with the motor stilled. They went into the house and Sandford closed the door after them.

  “Well,” he said, “this is unexpected. Fine, though.”

  “We’re looking for my aunt,” Pam said.

/>   “Your aunt?” Sandford said. “What the hell? I mean—” He smiled doubtfully; the smile crinkled the corners of his wide-spaced eyes. “How would one of your aunts get up here?” he asked. “The—the one the police thought might have—?” He broke off, politely.

  “The littlest one,” Pam said. “The one with the pink hat. Aunt Lucinda.”

  “Pink hat?” Barton Sandford repeated.

  “I don’t think you met her,” Pam said. “For—for some reason, she decided to come here. I don’t know why. We were worried about her, of course.”

  “Hell yes,” Sandford said. “I’d think so. Can’t see why she’d come here. Unless—” He paused. “Anyway, she didn’t,” he said. “Or, if she did, she’s gone now. I’ve had time to—” He stopped again. “It’s all a hell of a note,” he said, and his voice sounded troubled. “Come on, I’ll build up a fire.”

  He led them into the living room; took paper and kindling and logs from a cupboard; talked as he laid the fire.

  “Got here about ten minutes ago,” he said. “I’ve—I’ve looked the place over pretty thoroughly. For—” He became very busy for a moment. Then he spoke without turning. “For Sally,” he said. “I—I’m afraid she’s been living here. Not traveling around as she said. Living right here for—I don’t know what for.” He struck a match and the paper flared. He stood up and turned to face them. His voice now was very troubled.

  “I got afraid,” he said. “Of—well, you can guess what. Came up hoping I could prove she hadn’t been here. But—” He stood silent for a moment and shook his head. “The typewriter’s here,” he said. “Her typewriter. The one she’s been writing the letters on—to her aunt, now and then to me. It’s right here. I’m afraid it has been all along. And if that’s true—Sally has.”

  “But she’s not now?” Pam said. “You say you’ve looked?”

  He’d looked, he said. Not that there was much need to. The house had been dark when he came; he had lighted lights. It had felt empty. “You know,” he said. “You can tell.” Nevertheless, he had called Sally’s name and looked into each of the rooms. She was not there. But—her clothes were. The clothes he supposed she had taken with her on her trip; the clothes she must have taken with her.