The Crooked Lane

by Frances Noyes Hart

  “It is important, certainly, but not important enough to have you return to that room again. Nothing is important enough for that.”

  She said, her voice once more filled with that strange, deep serenity that had riveted his attention the first time that he heard it:

  “I’m not afraid of the room any more. I’ve always known, underneath, that the hardest things at the time are the easiest things in the end. I don’t know why I forgot it tonight. K, could someone have given her that stuff in black coffee?”

  “Black coffee!” He smote his hands together in a sudden flare of enlightenment. “Tess, I believe that now you have hit it! Good, strong, black coffee—with many lumps of sugar in it to hide the bitterness. Did she take it often at night—and one cup or many cups? What was her habit?”

  Tess shook her head absently.

  “It wasn’t a habit. Even with quantities of sugar in it, it was too bitter for her. But I’ve made her take it twice, when she’d absolutely made up her mind to go on to some party and wasn’t in any condition to go on, to put it mildly. It pulled her together quite a lot.… I thought we might see whether anyone had been using the percolator in the kitchenette.”

  “The kitchenette. Will you tell me why in the name of the good Lord I have not thought of that kitchenette? You would prove more of a credit to the Criminalistic Institute than I, I believe. Let us see what the kitchenette will tell us about this unknown guest!”

  But the kitchenette, apparently, was going to tell them precisely nothing. There it stood, behind the door opposite the study fireplace, blandly presenting for their inspection an interior as immaculate, as noncommittal, and, curiously, as ominous as an operating room. And there stood the percolator, its two great bubbles of glass swinging clear and shining on its silver pedestal; there, in glittering files, hung the racks of polished knives and spoons and an array of miniature aluminum pots and pans with jet-black knobs; there stood the electric refrigerator, severely chaste and classic, and a black-and-chromium sink that was a tribute to modernity. Sheridan, eyeing with marked distaste the general effect of order that had not been disturbed since the flood, lifted his hand to the black-and-white checked dishcloth and withdrew it moodily.

  “Dry as a bone.… Where do you put the dish towels that you have used, Tess?”

  “There, in that hamper under the sink.”

  He inspected it almost perfunctorily, replacing the lid over the vacuum that it revealed with unconcealed displeasure.

  “And the things that are not dish towels—orange peels, for instance, or coffee grounds?”

  “In the black enamel bucket—the lid opens if you step on that tread on the side.”

  The lid opened, and closed with a distinct clang.

  “Empty,” said the policeman from Vienna bitterly. “The coffee is ruled out, I fear.… Tess, when in heaven’s name is this kitchen ever used? It looks like one that you see shining out at you from a store window.”

  “Oh, I use it quite often myself,” she assured him with a pale smile. “Four of us were here only last night after the theater, and I made a salad and some toasted cheese sandwiches. The servants always see that it’s stocked with half a dozen fresh eggs, and some fruit and lettuce, and butter and cream and cheese. But of course the maid cleans everything up-when she straightens the rooms in the morning. That’s why it looks so beautifully tidy.”

  Sheridan went past her to the refrigerator, opening the door.

  “Ice cubes—both trays frozen,” he reported. “A basket of assorted fruit, two kinds of cheese, watercress, five eggs. Now why, Tess, five eggs? Did you not say six?”

  She moved swiftly to his side, her eyes incredulous.

  “But there are—there are six eggs, K! I noticed them myself, this morning, when I came in to see whether some flowers I’d left there last night were fresh enough to wear for luncheon.”

  “Well, now there are five, as you can see. What, I wonder, has happened to our sixth egg?”

  She stood staring down at them blankly, and then, light breaking over her face in a great wave, caught swiftly at his arm.

  “Oh,” she cried vibrantly, “oh, oh, what a fool! It was that, of course—not the coffee. She was going to make one only a few nights ago, but there wasn’t any Worcestershire—”

  He said quietly:

  “If there is any fool here, I can tell you where he stands. A pick-me-up, of course. The only perfect medium, since you must take it at one gulp. Was it—what did we call that thrice-infernal thing that we consumed at Cambridge?—was it a prairie oyster?”

  “I don’t know. Bill Stirling gave her one the other night, and she said it worked like a charm and that you hardly noticed it at all if you swallowed it quickly. It was a raw egg with lots of Cayenne and Worcestershire, and then you floated it in brandy to hide the taste.”

  “We omitted the brandy in our day,” commented Sheridan grimly, “but the rest of it sounds appallingly familiar.”

  “But, K, how on earth could he get rid of the eggshell? It isn’t in the bucket, is it?”

  “No, it’s not in the bucket. But it doesn’t take long to wrap an eggshell in a handkerchief—a handkerchief that has first been used to wipe dry a glass—nor to put the handkerchief safe back in a pocket.”

  “No. No, it wouldn’t, of course. Well, we can check up on the brandy, too. There was only half an inch or so left, in the bottle—we drank the rest last night—and if that’s gone now—”

  She was by him in a flash, and even before he had reached her she had lifted the dark bottle from the cupboard and was holding it high against the light.

  “Look, K, it’s empty! Then that settles that, doesn’t it?”

  “It does indeed.” He moved towards the love seat, where Fay’s gleaming bag still lay near the hearth, its gay contents scattered in half a dozen directions, and knelt to collect them, a curious expression on his face. “Amongst other things it should settle conclusively my value to you as—should I say—a collaborator? Suppose that I leave you that black bag, Tess, and let you continue what I consider a very promising career as a detective without my somewhat misguided attempts at assistance?”

  “Now,” said Tess Stuart, putting the empty bottle back on the cupboard shelf and closing the door on it with a gesture that combined irritation and despair, “you’re behaving like an extremely spoiled and cross little boy. You know perfectly well that the only times I’ve been of the slightest assistance were when I knew something about inside facts—like this brandy bottle, and the hyoscine. I don’t think I like you half as well when you go around flourishing inferiority complexes as though they were banners.… What’s that funny red thing in your hand?”

  Sheridan, still feeling like the outraged head of the fifth grade who has just been spelled off his feet by a yellow pig-tailed upstart from the kindergarten, extended the small, ruby-colored square of glass for her inspection.

  “That is precisely what I was about to ask you. You have never seen it before?”

  She inspected the small object conscientiously, a critical frown between the dark-feathered, level brows.… A square inch of deep red glass bound with a fine line of black tape.

  “No, never. What in the world do you think it is?”

  “I cannot think. Somewhere, sometime, I have seen its mate, I believe—but so long ago that only a glimmer comes back like the light of an ornament on a Christmas tree. It could not have been on a dress, you think—a clasp on the belt of some masquerade costume?”

  “No, no—I’m sure it wasn’t. It’s far too clumsy; and look, there’s nothing to fasten it on with.”

  “As you say. Well, since we two have decided to be lawbreakers, let us be good liberal ones. I think that I will take this little red square that makes me think of Christmas trees along with me when I go. Maybe later it will make me think of other things.”

  He took an envelope from his vest pocket, slipped the glass into it, and returned it with a somewhat disquieting expression.r />
  “To be on the other side of the great wall of the law—that has in it distinct elements of novelty, I confess! Well, then, Tess, we are done, are we not? There is the mirror, the notebook, this foot of lace and inch of linen that you who are women call a handkerchief, the lipstick, vanity, and chain purse. Everything, I believe, but our red glass.”

  He snapped the jeweled clasp of the purse and started to rise, when something caught his eye, and he bent closer, alert and tense.

  “When did you say this room was put in order, Tess?”

  “Sometime between noon and lunchtime, as a rule. Why? What is it?”

  “It is given a thorough cleaning then?”

  “Thorough? It’s given the usual going over with a duster and a carpet sweeper. Two or three mornings a week it’s vacuum-cleaned, too.”

  “You are quite sure of that? There is no chance that it might be omitted?”

  “Naturally I’m sure. Why should it be omitted?”

  “Have you had anyone in this room today, Tess?”

  “So far as I know, no one has been in the room since it was cleaned except Fay, you, and I—and one other person. And it was most certainly cleaned this morning, because I happened to hear the upper housemaid, Rose, with the vacuum cleaner, and I called out to be sure to throw out the dead flowers on the kitchenette sink. Now will you tell me what you’re staring at through that glass?”

  “Most assuredly. There are marks here on the carpet, Tess—four round little indentations, quite sharp and clear. They are directly opposite the place where Fay was sitting, but some distance away—roughly, perhaps three feet. I am quite sure that those marks were made by someone fairly heavy sitting in a chair with small, tapering feet—and sitting there for some time. The pile of the carpet is quite sharply depressed. You see, I think that this person who was sitting there was our unknown visitor, Tess—but I wonder just why that chair was so far from the love seat opposite?”

  Tess, schooled by now to the feminine wisdom of thinking neither too hard nor too fast, murmured docilely:

  “I wonder, too.”

  “There might be one very excellent reason, of course. Let us see if we can make conjecture fit these little marks.”

  He rose, replaced the brocade bag on the love seat, and moved thoughtfully towards the black bag, from which he again extracted the steel tape measure. His eyes remained preoccupied even after he had measured the spaces between the little marks, and subjected the carpet between them and the love seat to a severe scrutiny with the magnifying glass that he took from his pocket. It was only then that he lifted his head with a smile that flashed triumph to her like a greeting.

  “They are there, Tess—those other four marks—quite faint, but when you know where to look you will see them clearly. So, then, they were playing some game. Not bridge, since there were only two who played—and, also, the marks that the table feet have left are a little closer together than those of a regulation card table. What then? Russian bank, perhaps? Chess? No, no, I have it—backgammon! That is what you call that game on the table near the door, is it not?”

  “Yes. Don’t you play it in Europe?”

  “It is possible, but I have not heard of it. I do not have much time for games, alas, but I can remember seeing in my grandfather’s castle an old fruit-wood table with an inlaid pattern like yours.… Now who in Washington plays backgammon, Tess?”

  “Oh, every mother’s son and daughter of us! It’s dying out in some parts of the country, I’ve heard, but here everyone’s still mad about it.”

  “All those at the dinner tonight, for instance?”

  For a moment he could see mirrored in the gray eyes, clear and shining as spring rain, the gay wreath of faces about Cara Temple’s mirrored table.

  “All of them but Noll Parrish, and he’s taking lessons. You simply can’t turn that backgammon table into a clue, K.”

  “Can I not? Clues are not things that come running when you whistle for them, Tess. Clues are little things that lie almost under your eyes, almost under your hand, camouflaged as skillfully as those great guns in the war—guns big enough to blow a world to pieces, and yet quite invisible unless you know where to look for them-—and from what angle. That is why we will have a look at that backgammon table, I think. Who knows, we may find a clue no larger than your fingernail—yet large enough to blow a world to pieces? Let us make quite sure that it is not there.”

  He started to rise, the measure still in his hand, and paused, riveted, one knee to the floor, his eyes on the dark shadow beneath the love seat.

  “Now how in the name of wonder did that thing get there?”

  He extracted the minute object and rose, staring down at it speculatively as it lay in the brown cup of his hand.

  “What is it?” she asked curiously—but no curiosity concerning heaven, hell, or earth could again move Tess Stuart one inch closer to that love seat tonight.

  “God knows. A little green stick no larger than a match. It looks as though it were made of some kind of semiprecious stone. Wait, here is a light to see it better.”

  She moved towards the lamp near the door. All that space between her and the fireplace—that was better.

  “Oh, I don’t need a light; I know perfectly what it is. It’s one of Fay’s backgammon markers. You keep score with them, you know. The rest ought to be over here on the table. Probably it dropped off when—when someone was moving it.”

  “No, when I knelt to get the glass, it was not there, I can swear. Perhaps it fell when we moved the love seat forward. That would account for the fact that it was under the love seat.”

  Tess, her eyes on the backgammon table, murmured:

  “But, K, the markers aren’t here! That’s strange, isn’t it? She always keeps them right in this corner of the table.”

  “Perhaps the person who put them away did not know that—perhaps even he did not put them away,” he said, and though his voice was carefully unstressed, even in his ears it had a sinister ring. “They may have slipped beneath the cushions somehow.” He saw her flinch at that, and added swiftly, “We will not look further tonight, of course. But tomorrow—later tomorrow—will you have the maid make a thorough search? I would like if possible to see them. They came in some kind of a container, I suppose?”

  “Yes. A little round box of tooled leather.”

  “And you are quite sure that this is one of Fay’s?”

  He held it close to the lamp, and she turned wearily towards it.

  “Of course. You said it was green stone, didn’t you? As a matter of fact it’s made of—” Her voice checked, and he glanced up swiftly at the still face bending above it. For a second—no, for a fraction of a second—it was stamped with a look that he could find no name for. What was it? Amazement? Incredulity? Anger? Terror? It was gone even while he searched for a word, and the lovely face lifted steadily to his. “It’s made of malachite,” she said. “I gave it to her last month on her birthday.”

  Last month. And she had been nineteen. And she was dead.… Well, for tonight he was through with thumbscrews!

  “See, my poor Tess,” he said gently. “There is your dawn coming in at the window. Now shall I not wish you sleep to keep you well companioned, and courage to face the day that has come? I would wish you sweet dreams, but you will have none of them.”

  “No,” she said. “No dreams.… I wish that I could find some words to thank you.”

  “I do not very greatly care for words. Those in your eyes put me deeply in your debt. Will you promise me that you will not come again into this room until you have someone to come with you?”

  She said, her hand on the door to her room:

  “Yes, I’m glad you made me promise. I’ll take a book and read. No, not the one—not the one on the love seat. Give me that little brown leather one—there, near your hand.”

  “The good Herrick?”

  He carried it to her with a little smile. Almost everything she did amazed him and yet seemed as
inevitable as it was strange.

  “Yes—you like him, too, don’t you? He sings about lovely things—glowworms and primroses, spring mornings and summer nights.… It’s good to remember that those things didn’t die when Herrick did. Good-night, K.”

  “No, I will wait till your door is closed,” he said, “and until I hear it lock. Then I will turn out the light there in the hall and set back the latch on the door downstairs as I go out. Till tomorrow night, then, Tess?”

  “Till tomorrow night—yes.”

  He stood waiting, motionless, until he heard the faint click of the latch, and then without a backward glance at the strange world of terror and beauty that lay behind him, he crossed to the door that led to the hall, and closing it so carefully that there was no sound from it at all, he stood leaning against the wall for a little space, his eyes closed. After a moment he stirred, lifted his hand to the dangling chain that extinguished the light, and drawing a long breath, turned his face steadfastly to the darkness that lay before him.

  All the way down the stairs, he could feel the backgammon marker in his hand, small and cold and smooth as the bone of a fairy skeleton.… He could still feel it after the great door had swung to behind him.

  IV

  Party for the Press

  The knob turned smoothly and easily under his hand—too easily, thought Karl Sheridan, lingering for a moment at the head of the steps that led up in a shallow curve to the gleaming expansive façade of the Stuart house.

  May in Washington.… He had forgotten how enchanted it was—how sweet the honeyed incense that the early locusts lifted gratefully to the faint, starry blue above them. He glanced reluctantly at his wrist watch. Eleven o’clock.

  Never in his life had he desired anything so profoundly as the sight of the tall girl waiting for him somewhere behind that classic and ambiguous façade, up three flights of marble steps—but something within him, deeper even than that desire, clung obstinately and apprehensively to the freedom and clear-scented peace of the night that hung about him like a charm. So much more than a girl waited for him at the head of that curving stairway.… He set his teeth, straightened his shoulders, and felt the great door swing insidiously inward.