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Authors: John Dickson Carr
Tags: General Fiction
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anybody else would. There was a slight tear-up at the edges last time it was opened, for Miles’s funeral; and most crazy-paving looks alike.” Mark had become restless again. He got to his feet, brushing the matter away, and took out his watch. “That’s settled, then. It’s half-past nine now; let’s get started as soon as we can. There’ll be nobody up there to disturb us. We’ll go on up ahead, Ted; you get something to eat and follow us as soon as you can. Better wear old cl—” He stopped, in an alarm that was growing out of his uneasy nerves. “Good God! I forgot! What about Marie? What excuse are you going to make to her? You won’t tell her, will you?”
“No,” Stevens said, with his eye on the door; “no, I won’t tell her. Leave it to me.”
He could see that they were both surprised at his tone, but both appeared to have concerns of their own and they believed him. With the smoke-filled air of the room and his own lack of food, he found when he got up that he was a little light-headed. And it made him remember something else about the night of Wednesday, April 12th, which he and Marie had spent at this cottage, and on which he had gone to bed so early. He had gone to bed at ten-thirty because he had felt unaccountably drowsy, and had nearly banged his head forward against the manuscript on the desk. Marie said it was a taste of the open air, after New York.
He accompanied Mark and Partington out into the hall. Marie was not in sight. Shouldering ahead, Mark appeared in a hurry to get out of the house. Partington hesitated near the front door, looked round politely with his hat against his chest, and murmured something about Mrs. Stevens before his footsteps creaked after the other’s down the brick path. Standing in the open door, breathing the night, Stevens saw the lights of Mark’s car go on; he heard the jerk and throb of the engine, and the trees rustling at gossip. Well? He turned back, closing the door with care, and looked at the brown porcelain umbrella-stand. Marie was in the kitchen: he could hear her moving about, half humming, half singing, “Il pleut, il pleut berg è re—” that china-shepherdess song she liked so much. He went out through the dining-room, and pushed open the swing-door to the kitchen.
Ellen, evidently, had gone. Marie, wearing a house apron, stood at the kitchen cabinet, cutting cold-chicken sandwiches, spreading them with lettuce, tomato, and mayonnaise, and ranging them in neat piles on a plate. When she saw him she pushed back a strand of the dark-yellow hair with the hand that held the bread-knife. The heavy-lidded grey eyes looked at him gravely, yet with an expression which suggested a smile. What went through his head was Thackeray’s jingle in burlesque of Goethe:
Charlotte, like a well-conducted maiden,
Went on cutting bread and butter.
The kitchen was white-tiled, and there was a humming noise from the electric refrigerator. This whole business was nonsensical.
“Marie—” he said.
“I know,” she declared, cheerfully. “You’ve got to go. You eat these, darling.” She tapped the sandwiches with the bread-knife. “They’ll stay by you.”
“How do you know I’ve got to go?”
“I listened, of course. You were all so horribly mysterious. What did you expect me to do?” There was a very faint look of tensity about her face. “It’s spoiled our evening, but I know you’ve got to go, or you’d never get it off your mind. Darling, I did a good thing tonight to warn you—about being morbid. I expected this.”
“Expected?”
“Well, maybe not exactly that. But they’re talking about it in what few houses Crispen has. I got here this morning, and I’ve heard a hint of it. I mean that there’s something wrong at the Park; something; nobody seems to know what. Nobody knows how the rumor got started. If you try to trace it back, you can’t find it. Even if you try to remember who told it to you, you can’t be careful.
“No,” Stevens said, with his eye on the door; “no, I won’t tell her. Leave it to me.”
He could see that they were both surprised at his tone, but both appeared to have concerns of their own and they believed him. With the smoke-filled air of the room and his own lack of food, he found when he got up that he was a little light-headed. And it made him remember something else about the night of Wednesday, April 12th, which he and Marie had spent at this cottage, and on which he had gone to bed so early. He had gone to bed at ten-thirty because he had felt unaccountably drowsy, and had nearly banged his head forward against the manuscript on the desk. Marie said it was a taste of the open air, after New York.
He accompanied Mark and Partington out into the hall. Marie was not in sight. Shouldering ahead, Mark appeared in a hurry to get out of the house. Partington hesitated near the front door, looked round politely with his hat against his chest, and murmured something about Mrs. Stevens before his footsteps creaked after the other’s down the brick path. Standing in the open door, breathing the night, Stevens saw the lights of Mark’s car go on; he heard the jerk and throb of the engine, and the trees rustling at gossip. Well? He turned back, closing the door with care, and looked at the brown porcelain umbrella-stand. Marie was in the kitchen: he could hear her moving about, half humming, half singing, “Il pleut, il pleut berg è re—” that china-shepherdess song she liked so much. He went out through the dining-room, and pushed open the swing-door to the kitchen.
Ellen, evidently, had gone. Marie, wearing a house apron, stood at the kitchen cabinet, cutting cold-chicken sandwiches, spreading them with lettuce, tomato, and mayonnaise, and ranging them in neat piles on a plate. When she saw him she pushed back a strand of the dark-yellow hair with the hand that held the bread-knife. The heavy-lidded grey eyes looked at him gravely, yet with an expression which suggested a smile. What went through his head was Thackeray’s jingle in burlesque of Goethe:
Charlotte, like a well-conducted maiden,
Went on cutting bread and butter.
The kitchen was white-tiled, and there was a humming noise from the electric refrigerator. This whole business was nonsensical.
“Marie—” he said.
“I know,” she declared, cheerfully. “You’ve got to go. You eat these, darling.” She tapped the sandwiches with the bread-knife. “They’ll stay by you.”
“How do you know I’ve got to go?”
“I listened, of course. You were all so horribly mysterious. What did you expect me to do?” There was a very faint look of tensity about her face. “It’s spoiled our evening, but I know you’ve got to go, or you’d never get it off your mind. Darling, I did a good thing tonight to warn you—about being morbid. I expected this.”
“Expected?”
“Well, maybe not exactly that. But they’re talking about it in what few houses Crispen has. I got here this morning, and I’ve heard a hint of it. I mean that there’s something wrong at the Park; something; nobody seems to know what. Nobody knows how the rumor got started. If you try to trace it back, you can’t find it. Even if you try to remember who told it to you, you can’t be careful.
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