The Balcony

by Dorothy Cameron Disney

  The deputy glanced thoughtfully at the stub of his cigar, and dropped it out the window. Then he reached into his case and produced another. Carefully he flicked the second match away.

  “Looks like rain,” he said.

  That remark, which was the only one he made during the course of three-quarters of an hour, was safe enough. The wind had been rising steadily. Thunder was rolling in the West and lightning crashing. All at once the gray skies opened and released floods of rain. The storm was at its height when Sheriff Glick rejoined us. He came running down the sidewalk, and leaped into the car and beneath the wheel. An instant later we were racing down the street.

  By that time I was frantic. I seized the Sheriff’s arm. The car skidded crazily on pavement that was like grease.

  “Don’t do that, Miss Hieronomo!”

  “Where is Dan?”

  “Thinking,” said the Sheriff, and pulled the car into the straightaway again. “Seems he doesn’t care to talk. I’ve no doubt a little time to think will change his mind.”

  “Daisy?”

  “She talked.” The Sheriff’s hat was dripping. A drop of water was trickling down his nose, and that didn’t in the least diminish the terrifying grimness of his expression. “How about you, Miss Hieronomo? Do you care to tell me what you know about Dan Ayres? Unfortunately Daisy’s own behavior hurts her as a witness. I can’t take any chances. I’m determined you shall talk.”

  “No,” said I. “Where are you taking me? To jail?”

  “Our jail is small,” said Sheriff Glick, “and crowded as it is. For the present I prefer that you stay at Hieronomo House—but under somewhat different circumstances. I’ve been very patient with you. Much too patient. I’m now compelled to take certain measures to curtail your liberty of action. I intend to crack this case. You and no one else shall stop me! If Dan Ayres killed your aunt, I mean to hang him.”

  Shortly afterwards we turned off the road and climbed the storming, blowing cedar avenue to Hieronomo House. We skidded to a halt. Glick got out, and Cary seized my arm and rushed me to the shelter of the portico. The Sheriff didn’t announce our party; he merely opened the great oak door and waved us in. The foyer was deserted, but the house was far from quiet. In the drawing room Glenn and Hoy were struggling with the shutters. Great-aunt Lucy was helpfully showing Wanda how to mop the floors. In the dining room, unseen but audible, Patience and Richard were disputing how to close a stubborn window. No one saw us enter.

  “Where’s your bedroom?” asked Glick, and when I pointed, I found myself climbing up the stairs, with Cary clinging fondly to my arm.

  The Sheriff’s actions from then on were easy to understand. He stepped into the bedroom that I shared with Patience and examined it with careful interest, paying particular attention to the windows. They presented sheer and formidable drops to the ground below, but he locked them all. He nodded satisfaction upon discovery that there were no connecting doors. Finally, he picked up a chair, and carried it out into the hall, placing it on a range with the bolted windows.

  To Cary he said, “You stay here. Stay, you understand. I’m making you personally responsible for this young woman.”

  Cary sat down and arranged himself with the air of Gibraltar settling for the eternities. Inside I sank limply on the couch.

  “How long am I to remain here?”

  “That’s for you to decide, Miss Hieronomo,” said Sheriff Glick. “In some ways you’re a singularly obtuse young woman. Apparently you fail to realize your own danger in this case. You might give me some credit for protecting you.”

  “From what?”

  “From a brutal murderer, Miss Hieronomo.”

  “If you mean Dan . . .”

  He stood there looking down at me, and on his face was a frightening expression. “You may not talk to me, but I can make sure you don’t risk your neck by talking to someone else. You’ve talked too much entirely, as it “What do you mean by that?”

  I felt a brief, wild spurt of hope which quickly died away. The Sheriff didn’t answer. What he knew was official business. He made it very clear that I didn’t have his trust. Nor did he have my trust. With Dan in custody I didn’t mean to talk. Glick moved toward the door.

  “I’ll explain to your family. I’ll arrange that you get your meals up here. Otherwise you’re not to be disturbed. You’re to receive no visitors. I’m sure I can make them understand.”

  For a long time I sat numbly on the couch, staring into space. How Sheriff Glick explained the situation to the other Hieronomos I don’t precisely know, but I soon gathered that he was having more difficulties than he anticipated. Even in the bedroom I could hear the sudden clamor that broke out in the foyer below, the loud, expostulating, protesting voices. Glenn’s voice and Cousin Hoy’s, and Great-uncle Richard’s booming uproar, and finally Great-aunt Patience’s shrill and outraged tones:

  “You can’t keep me out of my own bedroom, Sheriff!”

  “I think I can,” said Sheriff Glick. An instant later I heard a banging door.

  XXIV

  IT WOULD BE USELESS FOR ME to recapitulate the dreadful indecision that assailed me during the slow hours that dragged by like years. Should I talk or shouldn’t I? Always I would know that I couldn’t talk to Sheriff Glick until I heard from Dan’s own lips what story he had told. On that dismal, rainy afternoon the possibility that we would ever meet again seemed reasonably remote.

  I pulled up a chair beside the window, and turned my back upon the watchful guard who tensed himself every time I stirred. The rear grounds were a bog, the trees were dim and blowing shapes, the barn was almost invisible in the downpour. Every trace of snow had been washed away. Rain fell steadily through the afternoon.

  No one came near the bedroom. Evidently the Sheriff had made his orders clear. The solitude deepened my despair. I could understand the absence of the elders of the family. I didn’t care to see them anyway, or to listen to advice which I could anticipate and reject without a hearing. But I wouldn’t have believed that Glenn would take seriously any order, or would abandon me.

  It must have been nearly three o’clock when Amos appeared with lunch. Cary, who had been glancing hungrily at his watch for at least an hour, accepted his tray and with alacrity fell to work. The tray was balanced on his knees; he could gaze over it and keep me comfortably in view. Amos, an old black servant, was not a figure to arouse either interest or suspicion as he shuffled past and came to me and extended a second tray.

  “Do try and drink your tea, Miss Anne,” said Amos. In the softness of his voice was a note of edged insistence. Amos set down the tray. Again and very softly he spoke—surprising words.

  “It ain’t right, Miss Anne, your being held a prisoner—nor fair nor just. Be patient, child, a little longer. Tomorrow I can promise your world will be fair and bright again.”

  I started, stared at him. Since our encounter in the early morning Amos had undergone a subtle and yet an amazing change. His habitual mournfulness had dropped away, to be replaced by an air of weary and yet almost triumphant peace. It had been easy always to credit that Amos was the son of a slave, a member of a race once cruelly oppressed. He carried the consciousness deep in his own breast, and impressed it upon all observers.

  For the first time since I had seen him, Amos himself, Amos the individual, had become a free human being. He seemed years younger. He stood straighter; the head that was usually sunken on his chest was carried proudly. So might the black man have looked had he laid down since morning a crushing burden.

  He stood very near the window, and he leaned to lift a napkin from the tray. His old lips framed the merest whisper.

  “Your young man didn’t kill my mistress.”

  “Go to the Sheriff, Amos.” In my own whisper was an agony of entreaty.

  I barely heard his words.

  “The truth will be where the three pines grow. Among the rocks, Miss Anne, will lie the truth—the explanation of many things.”

  I
n the electric silence of the bedroom sounded the clink of a silver spoon. Cary frowned and got up from his chair. He hadn’t overheard our whispering, but evidently he had decided Amos was lingering overlong. Curtly he ordered the Negro downstairs. Then he came into the bedroom, peered suspiciously at my sandwiches, lifted the lid of the teapot and the sugar bowl, and no doubt assured himself that I hadn’t been provided with a saw. He stamped back into the hall and sat down again.

  Meanwhile, I hadn’t stirred. My brain was whirling. One thing had emerged and very clearly from the Negro’s veiled and cryptic speech. Amos himself was somehow implicated in Great-aunt Amanda’s murder. But he wasn’t unsympathetic and, as clearly as he dared, he had told me that the evidence which would clear Dan Ayres could be found on the rocky rise guarded by the pines.

  It didn’t occur to me to appeal to Sheriff Glick. By speaking I might make Amos my enemy, cause him to change his mind and retreat into stubborn silence. He could deny the cryptic hint, and all the rest of it. Amos’ message had been meant for me alone, and I meant to agree to his conditions. I was determined to go to the pines myself, and discover the secret hidden in my Great-grandfather’s cave.

  That there was a cave among the rocks, I now felt confident. Long ago John Hieronomo had filled the cavern with dirt and rubble, and closed the entrance over. But a cave could be dug out again. Somewhere along the rocky rise I was convinced that once again there was a cave. How was I to reach it?

  I glanced at the deputy. Stolidly he gazed back at me, and lifted his cup of tea. I poured myself a cup of tea. I use sugar lavishly, and I suppose Glenn had observed the habit. His note, a pellet folded many times, was buried deeply in the bowl. It said briefly:

  “Bathroom four o’clock. G.”

  Aunt Patience’s bedroom had no private bath attached. The family wealth had vanished before the days of lavish modern plumbing. There was one common bathroom on the floor, a narrow little place inconveniently situated at the far end of the hallway.

  At five minutes of four I presented Deputy Cary with an awkward problem. He turned out to be an excessively modest man. Red to the ears, he escorted me down the corridor. He hesitated when we reached our destination, and if possible grew even redder. Only the strongest sense of duty, I am sure, carried him across the threshold. He hastily assured himself that there was no exit through which I might disappear, and that the single window opened into nothingness. Perspiring, he emerged.

  I went inside and closed the door, reasonably confident that if Glenn were quick we wouldn’t be interrupted. I turned on all the water taps. What my cousin’s plans were I didn’t know, but the window seemed to be indicated. Slowly I inched it up. Rain blew wildly in, but I hoped the running taps would mask the sound.

  I retreated noiselessly to the door, decided that my sturdy guardian had noticed nothing amiss. At the open window, in the beating rain, the top of a ladder suddenly appeared. An instant later Glenn himself, beaming and triumphant, climbed into view. Water was dripping from his nose, plastering his orange hair; his freckled, ugly face was glistening, and I’ve never seen a more welcome sight.

  “How am I doing?” he inquired in a stagy whisper. He leaned inside, deftly picked a towel from the rack and industriously mopped his streaming face. It wasn’t a bit like the balcony scene; my ugly champion outside on his watery perch was much more real and heartening than any Romeo. “I had to let you know that I’m pulling for you, honey. You’ve got a hard time ahead, but I want you to know that you’re—you’re not alone. The family, believe me, the family is sticking solidly behind you. You might be surprised but . . .”

  “Whatever are you talking about?”

  “I’ve just got back from town,” said Glenn. “Glick has sworn out a warrant for Dan Ayres’ arrest.”

  All along I had braced myself to accept that eventuality. I was as unprepared as though the blow had fallen without the slightest warning. One is never prepared, I suppose, for the worst. I wasn’t prepared to face the pictures that flashed in dizzying succession through my mind—Dan behind prison bars, his blue eyes stricken, Dan pacing up and down a narrow prison cell. And then I heard what Glenn was saying:

  “Ayres is at large. But he’s got no chance. The whole village is in an uproar. Everybody searching. They’ll pick him up by evening.”

  I stared stupidly.

  “Ayres was at the courthouse,” said Glenn, “but for once Glick played stupid. Left him in his private office, and Ayres went out the window. A foolish move if you ask me—flight is a confession in itself.”

  Glenn’s face seemed to blur before my eyes. I tried to catch the towel rack, and missed by inches. I felt his fingers grip my arm. I knew then that I had to fight.

  “And how is Great-uncle Richard? Delighted, I suppose . . .”

  “No, Anne, really. We were mistaken about that poor old hulk. He’s no murderer.”

  “Do you think Dan is guilty?”

  “Why did he run away?”

  Rain was dashing in my face, and I wasn’t conscious of it. I knew that Dan wasn’t guilty, and that he hadn’t run away. But that no longer mattered. In a murder investigation the humanities, one’s civilities and sensibilities, and even one’s regard for common justice, are horrifyingly stripped away. In that moment I believe that I would have tossed all of the Hieronomos to the wolves to save Dan Ayres, innocent or guilty.

  “What about Uncle Richard and Eliot Frawley? What about . . .”

  “That’s just it, Anne. The two of them are old friends, just as Richard told us. Dad and Aunt Patience seem to know all about it, they say it’s rubbish to suspect . . .”

  “What about the alibi?”

  “Panic and bad judgment. Aunt Patience feels sure Richard came early to Mount Hope to see Eliot, and that . . .”

  A tentative knock sounded on the bathroom door. Glenn started instantly to descend. I seized his shoulder.

  “I know, I know that Dan isn’t guilty. If I could leave this house . . .”

  “It isn’t just the warrant, Anne. The Sheriff has really closed the case. Glick has given all of us permission to get out of town.”

  “He’s what!”

  “The Sheriff has told all the rest of us that we can go. The—the fact is that most of the family is scattering tomorrow. I’m staying on with you if the Sheriff holds you as a witness. The rest of them . . .”

  “I’ve got to leave this house. Now! At once! I’ve got to, Glenn!”

  Silently Glenn removed my fingers from his arm.

  “I must go, Anne.”

  “You promised once to help me.”

  “Anne, Anne . . .”

  “Leave the ladder. I beg of you, Glenn. I beg . . .”

  “No,” he said.

  The knocking at the door was no longer tentative, was becoming agitated. I made a last desperate appeal.

  “Leave the ladder, Glenn.”

  “I can’t,” said he. “I cannot do it. You’re in trouble now. I won’t let you increase it. I love you, Anne, too much. I guess I’ve always loved you.”

  The disturbance in the hall increased. Cary was now calling emphatically:

  “Miss Hieronomo, Miss Hieronomo, answer me. Are you all right?”

  I turned and walked toward the door, and reassured the deputy. When I turned around again, Glenn and the ladder were gone. There was only the open window, and the pouring rain.

  XXV

  THE WINDOW IN THE BATHROOM was my only chance. I had now no thought of calling Sheriff Glick, of confiding anything to him. The hope that Amos had held out might be slim, but it was the only hope I had. I had to learn the secret of the cave before the family scattered. I had to leave the house that night.

  I dared not approach Cary again until an hour after dinner. It was eight o’clock when I appeared in the hall, and received grudging permission to bathe and brush my teeth. The deputy eyed my creams and toothbrush, glimpsed a lacy nightgown, flushed and looked no more. What he didn’t see, clutched beneath my
dressing gown and tightly folded, was a pair of sheets. He hadn’t watched me prepare my bed, nor had he seen me rob it. By tearing the sheets and braiding the strips together, I hoped to make a rope long enough and strong enough to support me to the ground.

  I locked the bathroom door, and started the water in the tub. When I moved toward the window to gauge the distance of the drop, the sheets were in my arms. They slid slowly to the floor.

  The night was intensely dark, but against the glass I thought I saw a shadowy outline. I raised the window.

  The ladder was in place.

  I didn’t pause to reflect on the oddness of Glenn’s change of mind. I climbed out the window instantly, and descended to the ground below.

  The rainfall mercifully had ceased an hour earlier. But the air was raw and damp and had a piercing chill. Strips of fog were stirring in the darkness like disembodied ghosts. No stars pierced the inky sky, no moon.

  My teeth were chattering. I was extremely cold. To smuggle a coat into the bathroom had been impossible.

  A long walk lay ahead of me. Somehow I had not expected to find the journey quite so terrifying—or to step forth into a night that was full of secret motion, into blackness that blanketed and blotted out familiar things. Trees seemed to be creaking all around me, and shrubs and bushes whispering. My own steps splashing, slipping in the mud caused my heart to thump.

  Lights in the drawing room, and others in the dining room and kitchen gleamed dimly in the darkness as I crept around the house. I set my teeth and moved blunderingly through the winter garden. I kept looking back, but the floating fog grew ever thicker. The house lost form and shape abruptly, the lights slowly dwindled and were gone.

  At last—it seemed hours must have passed—the barn loomed ahead. I felt my way along the solid, reassuring bulk. An open door nudged me in the forehead, and I smelled familiar odors—the musty scent of grain and hay and leather.

  I raised a quavering voice.

  “Amos? Are—are you anywhere around?”