Tales for a Stormy Night: Fifteen Crime Stories

by Dorothy Salisbury Davis

  PRAISE FOR THE WRITING OF DOROTHY SALISBURY DAVIS

  “Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler and Josephine Tey … Dorothy Salisbury Davis belongs in the same company. She writes with great insight into the psychological motivations of all her characters.” —The Denver Post

  “Dorothy Salisbury Davis may very well be the best mystery novelist around.” —The Miami Herald

  “Davis has few equals in setting up a puzzle, complete with misdirection and surprises.” —The New York Times Book Review

  “Davis is one of the truly distinguished writers in the medium; what may be more important, she is one of the few who can build suspense to a sonic peak.” —Dorothy B. Hughes, Los Angeles Times

  “A joyous and unqualified success.” —The New York Times on Death of an Old Sinner

  “An intelligent, well-written thriller.” —Daily Mirror (London) on Death of an Old Sinner

  “At once gentle and suspenseful, warmly humorous and tensely perplexing.” —The New York Times on A Gentleman Called

  “Superbly developed, gruesomely upsetting.” —Chicago Tribune on A Gentleman Called

  “An excellent, well-controlled piece of work.” —The New Yorker on The Judas Cat

  “A book to be long remembered.” —St. Louis Post-Dispatch on A Town of Masks

  “Mrs. Davis has belied the old publishing saying that an author’s second novel is usually less good than the first. Since her first ranked among last year’s best, what more need be said?” —The New York Times on The Clay Hand

  “Ingeniously plotted … A story of a young woman discovering what is real in life and in herself.” —The New York Times on A Death in the Life

  “Davis brings together all the elements needed for a good suspense story to make this, her fourth Julie Hayes, her best.” —Library Journal on The Habit of Fear

  “Mrs. Davis is one of the admired writers of American mystery fiction, and Shock Wave is up to her best. She has a cultured style, handles dialogue with a sure ear, and understands people better than most of her colleagues.” —The New York Times Book Review on Shock Wave

  Tales for a Stormy Night

  Fifteen Crime Stories

  Dorothy Salisbury Davis

  To the memory of Fred Dannay

  Contents

  Introduction

  Spring Fever

  Born Killer

  Sweet William

  Backward, Turn Backward

  The Muted Horn

  A Matter of Public Notice

  Mrs. Norris Observes

  Meeting at the Crossroad

  By the Scruff of the Soul

  The Purple Is Everything

  Lost Generation

  Old Friends

  The Last Party

  The Devil and His Due

  Natural Causes

  About the Author

  Introduction

  WE HAVE A RULE in our house: we are not allowed to say “Always.” We do say it of course, and mostly in the circumstance from which it was meant to be eliminated. “You always leave the light on in the basement.” “You always forget to let the cat in”—as though any cat in our house would long tolerate our forgetfulness. Always, I suspect, is the signet of a long marriage. And a happy one. Otherwise, how would it have survived so many Alwayses?

  I was about to say I always go to a rural setting for my short stories, and to the city for longer fiction, but always does not hold here either. “The Purple is Everything” could only have happened in a city like New York. This is so also of that wisp of a story of Irish perversity, “Sweet William,” as well as the more recent romp, “The Devil and His Due.” Best to say simply that I have been blessed with two backgrounds. I spent my childhood and adolescence on midwestern farms, my adulthood in or near the city. My friends have heard the quote ad nauseam, “Sweet are the uses of adversity,” but I believe it is profoundly so for the writer. I don’t think an artist ought to starve, but I think it helps to have known hunger. I grew up during the Great Depression. Nor was it over when I left the farm forever. Or when I left, only to take it with me. The soul is marked with childhood’s wounds, and I am grateful for mine. As a writer, I don’t know what I’d have done without them.

  I am surprised on rereading these stories to find missing in them even a suggestion of a crisis in religious faith, a subject that hovers over so much of my longer fiction. I am amused to discover that in stories where religious affiliation is mentioned it is Protestant. My only rationale at this distance is that I must have assumed Protestantism to be a shortcut. Having said that I am tossed back in memory to the family dictum that it was an easy religion to live by but a hard one to die by. This implant in my youth may not have caused a wound, but obviously it left an irritation at which I am still scratching. And I find on further thought that in one of these stories the crisis had to be precipitated by religious justification.

  “Born Killer” is set in rural northern Wisconsin, what my mother used to call the wilds of America, and I discovered long after writing it that it was her story. Her hatred for the farm and her longing for Ireland shadowed the lives of my father and me. She emigrated to America at the age of twenty-seven, certain she would never see home again. Nor did she, fearing the ocean more than the fires of hell. Flying was not a commonplace during her lifetime. But the Ireland she left was as vivid to me as to herself. Her tales were rich and macabre, as was her language: My heart’s scalded with you…Happy as a goat a hanging…It would melt the heart of a wheelbarrow. If you asked what was for supper: Sweep’s heels and roasted snow. When I read Hans Christian Andersen’s story of the chimney sweep I got the picture. And to What did you bring me from town, Mother? A bonny new nothing with a whistle on the end of it. But she always did bring something. And a final sampling, if someone were looking for something she did not think worth the effort: Looking for daylight up an entry. I didn’t unriddle that one until a few years ago when I groped my way through the vestibule of a house in Belfast. She grew in melancholy with the years and would sometimes tell me of the blow on the head she received as a child and how she thought it had retarded her mind. I did not know when writing “Born Killer” that my mother was Elizabeth, I, George, and the righteous father my own. At this writing, it is my favorite of my stories. But then, my favorite cat is always the one in my lap. It is disconcerting to coddle a parcel of them at one sitting.

  My father, despite that streak of righteousness—or possibly because of it—was a cheerful man. He was a Micawber, convinced that everything was going to turn out right. A few days after Black Friday in 1929 he bought the first new car of his life, a Marmon, and drove us happily to the East Coast where my mother had her first smell of the sea in over twenty years. He and I climbed every possible set of steps from the House of Seven Gables to Washington Monument. We shared a love of history—and of animals—and, in time, of politics. It seems curious to me that the story with which I associate him most strongly is “Lost Generation,” which is a horror story. In its writing I may have tried to exorcise my memory of the blind horse that fell into the well. My father almost killed himself and the hired man in the attempt to save it. I may have tried, but I can still hear the scream of the animal and the gunshot and the stillness afterwards into which intruded my father’s sobs.

  The hardest thing for me to account for as a writer is why I am a crime writer. It does not hold to say I am giving vent to suppressed anger. I could kick the cats or pound bumps on Harry. I think it goes more to craft, to the nature of the mystery form itself; more bluntly, to the demands the medium relieves the writer of having to put on herself, both psyc
hological and technical.

  When I married I left the church—or again, left to take it with me, and one of the first things my husband gave me was the urge to write. I did not want, nor was I able, to write about myself. I got around that monumental problem by writing about something else of which I knew virtually nothing, murder. No matter where the writer starts in the murder mystery, the game is already afoot, and it concerns the ultimate in human misbehavior. Nothing a writer can say about the villain or the suspected villain, or even the unknowing villain, is too terrible. It is only unsuitable if it is unbelievable. And that is where craft enters and where, by the back door, this writer, almost unbeknownst to herself, began to probe the darker possibilities of her own nature. I don’t think I have written a villain in whom I am not present.

  This may well account for why I am fonder of my villains than of my heroes who, no matter how I try to make them stand tall, have a tendency to slouch into glory. And I don’t think it would help them much if I were to sit at my desk mulling the contents of my wee box of good deeds. The plain fact is villainy is more interesting than virtue. The best I can do for them is to make them, too, fallible, potential villains perhaps, and then urge them to proceed upwards. I have often wondered why I was so inordinately pleased when someone said of one of my villains, “the poor bastard.” I suppose I made him human, dangerously and recognizably so, and felt rewarded. Better, of course, than to have had it said of my hero. Many years ago I was preening myself on praise I received in a letter for the novel, A Gentle Murderer, until I came on the line: “Would God there were more Tim Brandons in this world.” Tim Brandon was the murderer. In one of the stories in this collection, “A Matter of Public Notice,” the detective identifies all too consummately with a killer.

  Then there are the stories written strictly for runabout the bizarre McCracken sisters, “By the Scruff of the Soul” and “Natural Causes.” I have to trace the sisters back to my Aunt Mary, who was actually my mother’s cousin, a larger than life character of Irish American lore. She came from the Protestant side of the family, but converted on marrying a young Chicago fireman. No one was ever more critical of the Catholic Church than my Aunt Mary, and no one ever turned on you more fiercely if you dared say a word against it. Within months of marriage, the fireman was killed while volunteering on his day off. Aunt Mary never remarried, but she gave shelter to a sequence of younger men, over fifty years, of whom her only requirements, according to my mother, were that they be able to carry a tune and an occasional bucket of slops. Even I, with my convent education, knew they were useful in more areas than that. She could not carry a tune herself, but she carried a stick in the years I knew her with which she conducted the music and prodded all laggards into the dance. She bequeathed her property and life savings to the Chicago Fire Department.

  Undoubtedly the most traumatic event of my younger life was the discovery when I was seventeen that I was an adopted child. I came on my baptismal certificate in the bank deposit box while doing an emergency chore for my father. A year passed before I told my adoptive parents that I knew. I told my father first—in the barn, and then at his suggestion went into the house alone and told my mother. It was the only time I remember seeing her cry. This is material I have not used, by my own reckoning, except in describing shock. That whole room tilted over on its side and then somehow fell back into place again. I put everything back the way I found it. Except me. Fifty years later I am at work on a novel the major detection in which goes to the pursuit of a parent vanished before memory.

  I am indebted to two people for stories I would never have thought of on my own. To Harry, who is an actor, for “Backward, Turn Backward.” He brought home a broadcast experience that almost panicked him, the appearance during the show of a character not in the script. And to my late dear friend, Margaret Manners, who gave up a story to me when she was unwise enough to tell me how a painting could be stolen. I fell in love with the idea on the spot. I even remember the spot, Sixth Avenue and Twenty-fourth Street, a few paces in those days, from Guffanti’s Restaurant. The story: “The Purple is Everything.” Both stories were Edgar nominees, as was “Old Friends.”

  But putting by consideration of roots and derivations, my ultimate thanks must go to Ellery Queen, most particularly to Frederic Dannay, to whose memory this book is dedicated. His interest was tireless, his provocation constant and his encouragement unflagging. Except for Fred, the stories, save one or two, might not have been written; if it hadn’t been for his perceptive criticism and patient editing, I doubt that some of them would have been publishable. And whatever would the writers and readers of the mystery short story do without the Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine?

  Dorothy Salisbury Davis, 1984

  Spring Fever

  SARAH SHEPHERD WATCHED HER husband come down the stairs. He set his suitcase at the front door, checked his watch with the hall clock, and examined beneath his chin in the mirror. There was one spot he sometimes missed in shaving. He stepped back and examined himself full length, frowning a little. He was getting paunchy and not liking it. That critical of himself, how much more critical of her he might be. But he said nothing either in criticism or compliment, and she remembered, uncomfortably, doing all sorts of stunts to attract his eye: coy things—more becoming a girl than a woman of fifty-five. She did not feel her twelve years over Gerald…most of the time. Scarcely aware of the movement, she traced the shape of her stomach with her fingertips.

  Gerald brought his sample spice kit into the living-room and opened it. The aroma would linger for some time after he was gone. “There’s enough wood, dear, if it gets cold tonight,” he said. “And I wish you wouldn’t haul things from the village. That’s what delivery trucks are for…” He numbered his solicitudes as he did the bottles in the sample case, and with the same noncommittal attention.

  As he took the case from the table, she got up and went to the door with him. On the porch he hesitated a moment, flexing his shoulders and breathing deeply. “On a morning like this I almost wish I drove a car.”

  “You could learn, Gerald. You could reach your accounts in half the time, and…”

  “No, dear. I’m quite content with my paper in the bus, and in a town a car’s a nuisance.” He stooped and brushed her cheek with his lips. “Hello there!” he called out as he straightened up.

  Her eyes followed the direction in which he had called. Their only close neighbor, a vegetable and flower grower, was following a plow behind his horse, his head as high as the horse’s was low, the morning wind catching his thatch of gray hair and pointing it like a shock of wheat.

  “That old boy has the life,” Gerald said. “When I’m his age that’s for me.”

  “He’s not so old,” she said.

  “No. I guess he’s not at that,” he said. “Well, dear, I must be off. Till tomorrow night, take care of yourself.”

  His step down the road was almost jaunty. It was strange that he could not abide an automobile. But not having one was rather in the pattern. A car would be a tangible link between his life away and theirs at home. Climbing into it of an evening, she would have a feeling of his travels. The dust would rub off on her. As it was, the most she had of him away was the lingering pungency of a sample spice kit.

  When he was out of sight she began her household chores—the breakfast dishes, beds, dusting. She had brought altogether too many things from the city. Her mother had left seventy years accumulation in the old house, and now it was impossible to lay a book on the table without first moving a figurine, a vase, a piece of delft. Really the place was a clutter of bric-a-brac. Small wonder Gerald had changed toward her. It was not marriage that had changed him—it was this house, and herself settling in it like an old buddha with a bowl of incense in his lap.

  A queer thing that this should occur to her only now, she thought. But it was not the first time. She was only now finding a word for it. Nor had Gerald always been this remote. Separating a memory of a particular moment
in their early days, she caught his eyes searching hers—not numbering her years, as she might think were he to do it now, but measuring his own worth in her esteem.

  She lined up several ornaments that might be put away, or better, sold to a junkman. But from the lineup she drew out pieces of which she had grown especially fond. They had become like children to her, as Gerald made children of the books with which he spent his evenings home. Making a basket of her apron she swept the whole tableful of trinkets into it.

  Without a downward glance, she hurried them to the ashbox in the backyard. Shed of them, she felt a good deal lighter, and with the May wind in her face and the sun gentle, like an arm across her shoulders, she felt very nearly capersome. Across the fence the jonquils were in bloom and the tulips, nodding like fat little boys. Mr. Joyce had unhitched the horse. He saw her then.

  “Fine day this morning,” he called. He gave the horse a slap on the rump that sent him into the pasture, and came to the fence.

  “I’m admiring the flowers,” she said.

  “Lazy year for them. Two weeks late they are.”

  “Is that a fact?” Of course it’s a fact, she thought. A silly remark, and another after it: “I’ve never seen them lovelier, though. What comes out next?”

  “Snaps, I guess this year. Late roses, too. The iris don’t sell much, so I’m letting ’em come or stay as they like.”

  “That should bring them out.”

  “Now isn’t that the truth? You can coax and tickle all year and not get a bloom for thanks. Turn your back on ’em and they run you down.”

  Like love, she thought, and caught her tongue. But a splash of color took to her cheeks.

  “Say, you’re looking nice, Mrs. Shepherd, if you don’t mind my saying it.”

  “Thank you. A touch of spring, I suppose.”

  “Don’t it just send your blood racing? How would you like an armful of these?”