The Balcony

by Dorothy Cameron Disney

No one discussed the so-recent past that was in the minds of everyone. No one spoke of Aunt Amanda or of Amos or of Dan’s arrest. Tacitly and collectively the family had decided to turn its back on tragedy. The Hieronomos were scattering, and it was of small, immediate plans that the family talked.

  Patience sat at the head of the table. She wore her hat; her gloves and purse lay beside her plate, and her car— neatly parked—was waiting in the driveway. Glenn alone was absent. I had missed him instantly.

  Cousin Hoy undertook to explain to me, and made a bungling job of it. “Glenn seemed to feel he should make an early start in the car. It’s—it’s a long, tough drive to Boston, and he—I—we both thought he should avoid heavy traffic. I’m going north by train myself,” he finished feebly, “with Richard and Lucy. Else I wouldn’t be here either.”

  I glanced at the vacant chair where Glenn would have sat except—I was expected to believe—for his desire to avoid heavy traffic between Mount Hope and Boston. I had not observed that my red-haired cousin was a timid driver.

  Patience quickly intervened to ask some question about Hoy’s own arrangements, and he seized the opportunity to explain that his value to his Boston firm had obliged him to take the train. We heard at length how badly his services had been missed. Hoy’s boss had wired three times. He produced and exhibited the telegrams.

  Despite the conversational smoke screen, I understood that Glenn had not cared to say good-bye. The Hieronomos gathered around the table had already taken leave of Hieronomo House in spirit, and the house itself, although still filled with people, was beginning to assume an air of emptiness and desolation.

  “To think,” said Patience brightly, “that I shall be with my girls this very day. I intend to resume my classes this afternoon.”

  Overnight, Great-uncle Richard had recovered his own elan. Possibly the scene with me—as he might express it—had cleansed his soul. At any rate, he seemed to have dismissed from his thoughts our interview in the upstairs bedroom.

  His costume obviously had been selected for city wear. He glanced toward Lucy, who wore clothing of a cut and color that suggested her husband’s supervision. Her thin and definitely elderly little figure was covered by a frock of brilliant hunter’s green, a trying shade for a woman half her age. Her eyes were sunken in her head—for once she had abandoned those persistent attempts of hers to make other people happy. Possibly she felt we didn’t need her aid, or she herself may have been unable to pluck up the necessary energy. What Great-uncle Richard had gained in vigor seemed almost to have been drained from her.

  He patted her hand.

  “You and I, my dear, by evening will be in our wee apartment. Dining in the greatest city in the world . . .”

  “Yes, of course,” she said wearily.

  I wondered if Uncle Richard had finally confided to his wife the amazing tale of his own activities, and wondered why Sheriff Glick had been so little concerned. The Frawleys were not in evidence. Their absence wasn’t mentioned.

  My own plans were carefully overlooked in the discussion. No one inquired what I would do next, where I would go. When Sheriff Glick appeared shortly after nine o’clock, the family was occupied, or was pretending to be occupied, with last minute preparations. It was miraculous how quickly all of them had vanished into their various bedrooms when the doorbell rang.

  Sheriff Glick greeted me in a sober way and asked if I were ready. He did not remark the absence of the family, and merely asked if I had said my own good-byes. Those farewells—almost as strained and formalized as that final meal—had taken place.

  No member of the family was visible when I passed through the foyer with Sheriff Glick. The heaps of luggage had disappeared. The dining room was clean and cold and tidy, the dishes in the kitchen had been washed and put away, and I have no doubt that the small amount of food remaining was neatly packed in Patience’s car. The library door was closed.

  The drawing room was visible. Someone had remembered to draw the draperies, to roll up the rug, to sweep the charred ashes from the fireplace. On the grand piano, forgotten and pathetic, stood the bowl of rust and yellow chrysanthemums that Glenn and Hoy had brought to celebrate Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving Day was less than one week past. Except for the dried and wilted flowers, drooping in the copper bowl, it was as though the reunion of the family had never been.

  I walked through the great front door, beneath the massive columns of the portico. Glick lifted my bag into his car, and a moment later we started down the cedar avenue. No rain had fallen for many hours, but the drenched and sodden foliage of the trees still wept watery tears. As we turned to the public road, I looked back for what I thought would be a final glimpse of Hieronomo House. I did not realize that the inevitable and foreordained denouement of our tragedies was even then in sight, that within a few hours there would be no mystery. I saw only what met my eyes, and how clearly I can see today the outlines of Hieronomo House against the bleak November sky! The portico of the mansion formed the center of the picture; the melancholy landscape seemed keyed to its sombre grandeur. The classic, ascending columns held aloft the balcony where Aunt Amanda had stood, and seemed almost to throw their massive shadows against the window that opened into John Hieronomo’s room.

  I looked, leaned back against the cushions of the car, and closed my eyes. I asked one question only. I asked for Dan, and was courteously informed that under no circumstances could I see him. A room awaited me at the Village Inn; Sheriff Glick politely hoped that I would find it comfortable. Dan, the Sheriff added thoughtfully, was as comfortable as could be expected. After that I said no more.

  I didn’t even notice that the drive was stretching out to an unconscionable length, that the Sheriff—who seldom went under fifty miles an hour—for once was dawdling. But I opened my eyes abruptly when we began to descend a long, steep hill. At the foot of the hill lay the Mount Hope railroad station. We drew up beside the road and stopped. The Sheriff took out his watch, nodded satisfaction, replaced it in his pocket.

  An incoming train pulled in on the tracks below. A bag of mail thumped on the platform. No passengers alighted. Five people climbed hurriedly aboard. Great-uncle Richard and Great-aunt Lucy and Cousin Hoy, and to complete the company, Eliot and Wanda Frawley. The five made up a single party, a party that had no backward glance to spare. If the five were as eager as they seemed to rush away, to take themselves to other, pleasanter places, they were soon accommodated. Before the vestibule could close, before any of the five found seats, the train was in motion, and was promptly gone.

  Glenn had started for Boston hours earlier, almost at dawn. Patience had lingered to close the house, but she, too, by now was plodding on toward Baltimore. The Hieronomos were gone. I alone was left behind. The reunion of the family was over.

  XXX

  MY ROOM AT THE VILLAGE INN, as Sheriff Glick had promised, was comfortable. It was small but very clean, located off a rambling, old-fashioned lobby where one rang a bell to summon the owner-clerk-cook-and-cham-bermaid—a pleasant, if somewhat breathless, optimist named Hilda Johnson. Mrs. Johnson obviously hoped that I would remain the county’s guest and parenthetically her own—indefinitely. I stood beside my window and watched Sheriff Glick drive away, and wondered if I would.

  I know now that Cordell Glick himself could not have answered me, although even then his thoughts were running on ahead to a careful trap which he had laid, and in which I had played my own small part. It was all too possible that the trap might fail. In the general scheme of things, in the carefully considered attempt to catch a killer who otherwise might have gone unpunished to the grave, I can concede that my own feelings were not important. I can admit that Sheriff Glick probably hit upon the one successful method of trapping a murderer against whom there was not one scrap of evidence. But on that day I hated him.

  I was permitted an amazing amount of liberty. No deputy was left to guard me. There was no surveillance of my movements. But the two things I desired were denied me—
a few short minutes with Dan, an explanation of what was going on.

  My mental processes were virtually static. I have very little recollection of the slow-moving hours of the endless morning and endless afternoon. I must have lunched. I must have walked up and down the room. I must have paused many times beside the window and looked out.

  I remember that the darkness fell very early and swiftly closed upon the little town, and that around the central square, twinkling lights came out. By half past five the day was gone. A starless, moonless sky enclosed the village like the canopy of a stuffless tent.

  It was exactly six o’clock when Glenn Hieronomo slipped unseen into the lobby, came quietly to my door and rapped. Hilda Johnson was as saving of electricity as Patience Hieronomo herself. The hall was entirely dark. Glenn had to speak before I recognized him, and then his voice was so queer and harsh that at first I hesitated. Glenn stepped past me.

  He came into the room, closed the door and leaned against it. He looked so strange that I was almost frightened. Was this pale, gaunt man my merry, red-haired second cousin?

  I said weakly, “Why—why aren’t you in Boston?”

  “I turned around and came back,” Glenn said curtly. And then, as though he, too, faced a stranger, he stared at me. His eyes were bright and feverish in the pallor of his face. “Anne, don’t ever criticize my kind of help again! The help I’ve given you today has cost me something. Are you going to ask me to sit down?”

  “Sit—sit down, Glenn.”

  Glenn sank into a chair. He lighted a cigarette, gazed vaguely at the glowing tip and then put it out.

  “I’m all done in, I guess. I’d give a lot for a good, stiff drink. I don’t suppose this place has a bar.”

  “I’m afraid not, Glenn. What you need is food. Let me try to get us dinner.” I started toward the door.

  “Put on your hat and coat,” he said sharply. “We’ve got no time to lose. Don’t you want to hear how I put in my afternoon?”

  “Yes,” I said mechanically.

  “I’ve been looking into our distinguished ancestor.” Glenn laughed—an odd, broken laugh not unlike a sob. “I know now that Dan Ayres is innocent, that your story of the cave was true. Not everybody in Mount Hope was taken in by John Hieronomo’s personally exploited legend. I discovered a scattering few this afternoon who weren’t deceived.”

  Glenn got up from his chair. He lighted another cigarette. He spoke as though he were talking to himself, and had quite forgotten me.

  “I know now why Great-grandfather hid his money. There were hints enough from Dad and from the others, but the doctor who treated John Hieronomo—he still lives here in Mount Hope—knew all along what ailed his patient. John Hieronomo’s mind was cracking, Anne. His obsession, his great consuming fear was that he’d die penniless. Gold was all he had, all he’d ever had—gold alone supported his illusion of himself.”

  “Please sit down, Glenn.”

  “No,” said Glenn. “No, we’re going places. But first you’ve got to hear me out. I can understand Greatgrandfather now, I can picture him. He lived with terror, Anne, all his later days. In terror he’d lose his money, in terror that his glittering reputation would crash. I know that he lived in constant terror of his life. He probably lay in bed of nights, hourly expecting one of the wretched blacks he’d sold back into slavery would track him down, come stealing through the darkness, tiptoeing toward his bed. Every creaking board had a meaning, every gust of wind that banged a shutter. The phantasies and fears that rode him were born of his condition, but how real they were! Great-grandfather kept that pistol underneath his pillow, and believe me it was loaded. He carried the pistol everywhere. But for all his caution he couldn't save himself. He managed to keep his money, but he lost his life.”

  Glenn came over and took my arm. His hand felt hot and feverish. His fingers trembled.

  “Three people have died because of that accursed gold; three people have been murdered. And that’s enough. It’s got to stop. Family or no, it’s got to stop.”

  “Family?” said I.

  “The murderer,” said Glenn, “is one of us.”

  Then he pushed me through the door. I had no idea where we were headed, or what my cousin’s purpose was. I followed his bidding like a bewildered but submissive child. Hoy’s car was at the curb. We got into it.

  A moment later we were racing down the wet and slippery street. Abruptly the lights of Mount Hope were left behind and we were skidding crazily along a rutted country road. The darkness was thick, the landscape was blotted out. The only sound was the sliding, slipping of the tires, the blowing wind. My cousin had turned off the dashboard light. I couldn’t see his face.

  “Where are we headed, Glenn?”

  “Didn’t I tell you, Anne?”

  It was his strained, unnatural voice that alarmed me. I could not imagine that I would ever be afraid of Glenn, and yet suddenly I was afraid. I tried to keep my own voice calm.

  “You didn’t tell me anything. You just rushed me to the car. Please, please drive more slowly, Glenn.”

  Another curve leaped into sight. The formidable shapes of trees, a yawning ditch hurtled toward us. Our wheels rocked in space, clawed the road again. By a hairs-breadth we made the curve. Glenn slowed down.

  “Sorry, Anne. I didn’t bring you out to pile you in a ditch. I guess my nerves are shot.”

  “You’ve got to tell me where you’re going.”

  “I’m going,” said he over the rushing wind, “to find the spot where Great-grandfather hid his gold. It was the gold that caused the murders. Once it comes to light maybe we’ll have the truth at last.”

  Once again his foot had pressed the accelerator almost to the floor. I tried to reason with him as we raced ahead.

  “You can’t expect in one night to discover what none of the family could find in a quarter of a century.” “Aunt Amanda found the gold.”

  “Even if she did . . .”

  “It’s on the balcony,” said Glenn querulously. “Somewhere on the balcony. That’s why Aunt Amanda was there last Wednesday afternoon. That’s why her footprints were swept away by the murderer. Aunt Amanda —mark my words—stepped out to get the bag of gold, and saw Ayres arriving only because of chance. The gold is somewhere on the balcony.”

  “But, Glenn, I’ve been on the balcony many times . .

  My sentence was never finished. We turned abruptly and were on the grounds of Hieronomo House. My last approach to my great-grandfather’s home invoked inevitably my first. Above arched the mournful cedar trees, ahead was the climbing road. Once again I had the illusion I was in an empty world. The car became a tediously moving carriage, and my companions were the two dissimilar sisters—Patience and Amanda. But Amanda was dead and Patience was in Baltimore. It was Glenn who sat beside me. He was as strange to me as they had ever been, Glenn whom I had thought of always as a dear familiar.

  The avenue fell away. We were in the open. The snow that had carpeted the circling space where long ago visitors hitched their horses had melted to expose the cracked concrete. Glenn came to a slithering halt. A few yards ahead, and barely visible, rose the vast and formidable bulk of Hieronomo House. One caught the dim white gleam of the ascending columns, the shadows that lurked beyond.

  Glenn got out. “You stay here, Anne. In the car. What’s to be done I mean to do alone. You’re not to budge under any circumstances. I’ve got your promise.”

  He disappeared.

  I had not given my promise. I doubt I would have kept it anyway—not with Glenn in such a mood. I had lost my personal fear. My anxieties were for him.

  I waited sixty seconds, possibly even less. Then I slid from the car and moved swiftly toward the house. I stole between the frowning columns into the deeper shadows of the portico. The great front door stood open. Without an instant’s hesitation I stepped into the foyer, and then I paused. The foyer was absolutely dark.

  I put down a little stir of nerves. How had the door happened
to be open? I decided that Glenn must have had a key. How had he got upstairs so quickly?

  The sensible thing was to switch on the lights. I groped along the wall in the thick and silent blackness. My fingers touched the button. I didn’t press it. I can’t say quite why. Perhaps I sensed instinctively that the darkness which might conceal hidden danger, nevertheless offered me its own protection.

  I wasn’t exactly frightened as I grasped the stair rail and felt my way up the steps. But I didn’t call Glenn’s name. It was as though the quiet of the house had quieted me, and I were a part of the silence all around me.

  My heart beat uncertainly. I strained my ears with listening. Even when I reached the second floor I heard no sound. I hesitated in the hallway. Where was Glenn? Certainly I should hear him now.

  I began to wish I had obeyed his injunction and remained in the car. I almost turned around. And then I forced myself ahead. On tiptoe, I approached John Hieronomo’s room. That door, too, was ajar. As I stepped inside I felt a draught of chill, moist air.

  The window to the balcony was open, and on the balcony dimly illumined by the glow of his own flashlight, I saw Glenn. Or rather, I saw part of him—the window draperies concealed his head and shoulders. So far as I could make out, my cousin was stooped over slightly, examining something. It was a curious position, and the rigidity of his posture was curious too. He was as motionless as a statue.

  Guided by the point of light, I started noiselessly across the room. I passed the bureau and the wardrobe. I was almost at the window now, and still Glenn had not moved. In a quavering voice—in a trembling whisper— I called his name. Instantly he straightened up, and whirled around. In a flashing, fleeting glimpse, in the fraction of a second, I saw his pale, shocked face, a look that was like anger in his eyes. And then, inexplicably, his flashlight blinked out. The balcony was dark.

  But the window was just ahead of me; my fingers brushed the draperies. I was frightened and perplexed, a little angry now, myself. I set my teeth, and stepped outside. It was then, and almost immediately, that I heard the noise—the strangest kind of noise, a slow and ponderous creaking. The balcony seemed to be in motion, the floor was quivering as though all natural laws had been suspended, as though the house itself was trembling on its foundations. The air was filled with rushing noise, and then all was silence.